Don't You Dare Look Back, Just Keep Your Eyes On Me
by LeighKelly
Summary: In the fall of 1983, while on a date with another woman, semi-closeted banker Santana Lopez meets struggling dancer Brittany Pierce. Though they come from two different worlds, a single dance changes their lives forever.
1. Shut Up and Dance With Me

**New York, New York, 1983**

As the music pumps through tinny speakers, and the strobe lights above her head flash, Santana Lopez sits at a high-top table, raising and lowering her second Cosmopolitan from her lips. The girl sitting across from her, her cousin's friend, in town, only for the weekend, flips her blue hair as she talks about her band, a Madonna cover band, Santana thinks she said—though she refrains from offering her opinion on why one shouldn't exclusively play covers of an artist who's had exactly four singles to date, and as catchy as she may find _Lucky Star,_ who's to say she won't be just another flash in the pan, effectively killing the band this girl seems completely obsessed with. And truth be told, even _if_ she'd decided to do that, Santana has scarcely been able to get a word in edgewise, so she wouldn't have the opportunity.

When Santana finishes her Cosmo, her date is quick to her feet to order her another. Santana gives credit where credit is due, and that she can absolutely give the girl credit for, and it's something that'll probably bring them both back to the Hotel Chelsea tonight, despite her complete lack of conversational skills. Santana's not dead, after all, and doing her cousin Carlos a favor and bringing his friend out for the evening, well, that doesn't mean Santana will break from what she does every Saturday, despite the fact that she thinks maybe, just _maybe_ the girl is a little strange, choosing a place to stay, solely for it's Sid and Nancy connection. But Santana digresses, even in her mind. Saturdays are about unwinding for Santana. Monday through Friday, she slides into a suit and heels that click against the tile floor of her office at Chemical Bank, asserting her dominance over her underlings, but Saturdays, even on the weekends where she lacks the courage to get on stage at Rose's Turn and sing her heart out, are all for letting her hair down, both literally, and metaphorically. Santana doesn't date, that's a rule for her, too messy, too stressful, and she gets enough of that in her day job, but that certainly doesn't mean she can't enjoy the company of women, and enjoy that, she does.

Her date returns with her drink, smiling when Santana nods, graciously, as the girl lets her eyes wander down to the _v_ in her yellow dress. Santana smirks a little, quirking an eyebrow, and takes a sip of her drink. She looks bangin' in her dress, and Santana relishes the appreciation of her body, before turning her attention, wistfully, to the dance floor. Her date, she doesn't like to dance. She'd told Santana as much, when Donna Summer came on an hour earlier, and she'd declined the offer to dance. Santana's fingers drum on the table, only half paying attention to the story being told to her, as she watches, fairly envious, as a crowd of people dance to _Billie Jean._ Beneath the table, Santana's sneakered foot taps along to the music, and then, as her eyes meet those of one dancer who stands out among the rest, her breath catches in her throat.

The dancer is gorgeous. Her blonde ponytail whips around as she mouths—or sings, perhaps, Santana can't be sure, from her vantage point— _told my baby we'd danced 'til three, then she looked at me._ Though the smiley face that emblazons the dancer's white t-shirt would typically be off-putting to her, Santana is mesmerized, and she's not the only one. The crowd seems to part, and even over the music, the whooping of women and men alike spurs the girl on. When she's finished, the music releasing her from it's hold, the girl looks up, and catching Santana's eye, she grins, all of her teeth making an appearance.

It continues like that for the rest of the night. Santana's stuck with her date, since she'd promised Carlos that she'd hang with her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't split her attention with the dancer girl, who hangs out with an equally good Asian dancer—though, Santana's entirely uninterested in _him—_ and a guy who pops wheelies in his wheelchair. While the girl across from her continues to talk, accepting Santana's monosyllabic answers as an invitation to continue, she assesses the dancer and her friends. It's clear she's touchy, as dancers usually are, Santana would know, absolutely, from many a wild night with one, but this girl seems to be particularly so. She drapes herself over the guy in the wheelchair, she holds hands with the Asian—though the two men are a couple, it seems— she strokes the arms of people who surround her, and Santana wishes, wishes that should could be out there with her too.

But her date still talks, about the struggles of finding a guitarist now, Santana thinks. She's barely listening by this point. Dancer girl, whose friends have left together, is now on the floor, doing the worm to _Another One Bites the Dust._ As her ass, clad in hot pink pants, bobs up and down on the floor, Santana feels her throat go dry. She can't believe, really, that the girl she's with us entirely oblivious. The next time she sees Carlos, she'll need to remind him that simply being interested in women doesn't give them a lot in common, _especially_ when she can't appreciate the incredible show right before her eyes. Slurping the rest of her fourth martini, Santana stands up and excuses herself to the bathroom. It's getting late, the club will close in a half-an-hour, and warm, not just from the liquor, she splashes her face in the sink. She shimmies down the corridor, interested in getting back to watch, when she feels a soft hand on her bicep.

When Santana spins around, there she is, the dancer she's been watching all night. Up close, she's even more striking, blue eyes, boring into her, appraising and appreciating every inch of her. She's stunning, really, taller than Santana, and all muscle, with this face that seems to bubble with emotion. As Santana's eyes widen a little, the dancer bites back a smirk, knowing _exactly_ the effect she's having on the girl she looks down at.

"I saw you watching me." She tells her, twisting the long ponytail in her fingers. "Looks like you liked what you saw."

"I—I'm here with someone." Santana stammers, alcohol and a pretty woman making her tongue heavy.

"And you looked like you were having a _totally_ good time." The girl rolls her eyes in response. "Just come dance with me, we both know you want to."

At her cockiness, Santana has to resist the urge to pinch her thighs together. She's seen women before, exuding confidence on the dance floor, and it not translating outside of that, but this certainly isn't the case here. This girl knows what she wants, she knows that out of all the other women in the room, she wants _Santana._ Entirely forgetting about her date, about her cousin Carlos, about anything but this bombshell trailing her fingers down her arm, and eventually taking her hand, Santana allows herself to be led to the dance floor, making her best effort to keep up with her partner as _Sweet Dreams_ fills the room. _Everybody's looking for something_ thrumming, thrumming through her veins. What she didn't even know she was looking for, apparently right in front of her.

She's breathless, when the song is over, but she doesn't stop dancing, not with this gorgeous, nameless woman tracing her curves with lithe fingers, not with deep blue eyes, never leaving her, not with music and this intoxicating scent invading her senses, Pert and Raffinee, but something else, something carnal, something that makes her head spin. Santana doesn't stop, not until the lights go on, not until the brightness reminds her that she'd totally blown off her cousin's friend for a woman whose name she doesn't know—and she doesn't regret it, not in the slightest. She looks around, back to the table she'd left, but it's empty, it's empty, and before another thought crosses her mind, the fingers of the mysterious dancer are on her neck, redirecting her attention. Again, when fingers slip through hers, Santana follows the woman from the bar and out to the sidewalk, no questions asked. Drunk club-goers mill about, but all of the alcohol that Santana consumed throughout the night seems to have left her system as soon as they step into the crisp fall air.

"Wanna go somewhere with me?" The woman asks, looking at her, looking _into_ her.

"I don't even know your name." Santana says, though she knows she'll go, she knows that she'll go anywhere with this woman, like she's _compelled,_ somehow.

"Brittany. It's Brittany. And what's yours, babe?"

"Santana." She croaks, the word _babe_ bringing the same dryness to her throat that this woman, _Brittany's,_ dancing had. Like she's possessing her, almost, that thought, weakening her knees. "Where are you going?"

"To get something to eat, probably. I'm half-starved. You in?"

"It's three in the morning, where're you even gonna go?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions." Brittany stops in front of a Katana and grabs the leather jacket strewn over the handlebars. "Put this on, you're gonna freeze your ass off if you're coming with."

"Brittany, you can't just steal someone's jacket." Santana's brow furrows, but Brittany just laughs at her, pulling a key out of her bra.

"Whose bike do you think this is? It's your call, but if you want to come, get that tight little ass on the back and let's book."

"Holy shit." Santana sucks in a breath, Brittany's attractiveness dialing up about a hundred notches when she effortlessly hops on a motorcycle. After slipping into Brittany's jacket, she catches the helmet that's tossed her way, and once it's secured, flattening out her hair, she climbs up behind Brittany and wraps both arms around her waist.

Santana can't believe she's doing this, really. Sure, she's no stranger to going home with women, she'd been considering going home with her terrible date not two hours ago, after all, but this is something completely new, and not just being on the back of a motorcycle, tight dress creeping up her thighs, as she feels the strung back muscles of a gorgeous woman tense against her front. But no, leaving a bar to go share a meal with a woman, that's far more frightening to her than Brittany speeding down Houston Street, taking full advantage of the stillness of the late night. It's frightening, but it sends a chill of exhilaration straight through Santana's veins, and even clad in Brittany's tight leather jacket, she leans her body further into her driver, seeking something, though she's not quite sure what.

They're uptown, Santana realizes, when Brittany hops off the bike, offering Santana a hand off, then kicking down its stand. It's far further west than Santana would usually go, her small studio on the Upper East Side safely tucked away from the grittiness that seems to pervade the rest of the city. They stand beneath the long abandoned elevated train line, graffiti working its way up every metal support, continuing to the beams over their heads, and the smell of the Hudson River creeping into her nostrils. Looking around warily, at the unfamiliar place, Santana startles a bit, when Brittany rests a hand on her lower back, but somehow, in the early morning hour, she's quick to relax into the touch, she's quick to allow this woman that she's shared a mere five sentences with to usher her into a grody looking diner, all the way to a booth in the back corner. Santana looks around, taking in the sound of the bells as they enter, in the faded leather booths, in the old man by the door, sipping a cup of coffee, the only other person in the place, it seems, besides the waitress who slips through a swinging door, taking orders for their own coffee.

"Thanks for grabbing a bite with me." Brittany smiles at Santana, who just shrugs. "I'm always starved after dancing like that all night."

"You're good, like, totally good. The whole place was staring at you."

"Thanks. Didn't really notice, I guess I was too busy staring back at you."

"Is that a line?" Santana tilts her head, but she can't help the genuine smile that sneaks it's way onto her mouth. She's still in Brittany's jacket, and though she briefly considers giving it back, she's throughly enjoying the warmth of it, and the vague scent of it, that same _Brittany_ scent she'd inhaled in the club, and then more, the entire time she had her face practically buried into the back of her neck.

"Is it working?"

"Well, I came with you here, didn't I? Seems like you don't really need lines."

"Truth." Brittany laughs, and Santana, tired from the night, from the alcohol, from thinking too hard on their way over, rests her head on her hand, watching the way Brittany's eyelashes flutter as she speaks. "Looks like you could really use that coffee. Not used to running all night?"

"Usually in a bed by this point in the night." Santana tells her honestly, and Brittany quirks an eyebrow. "What? Need something to relieve the pressure of my job, so I like alcohol and ladies, sue me."

"No ones judging but you, babe. So what is it you do, big shot?"

"I'm the branch manager at the Chemical on Pine."

"No fake? You really _are_ a big shot! That's a big deal for anyone, but _especially_ a woman."

"It's whatever." She shrugs, sort of blanching at the unfortunate yuppification of her former self that she so despises. "Pays the bills, I wanted to be a singer, but couldn't break into the biz."

"I hear you on that. I'm a chorus girl so…"

"No fricking way! Are you working right now?"

"Right _now_ I'm sitting here waiting for coffee with you." Brittany teases. "But yeah, I'm in that new Rachel Berry musical. Townsperson number four. And yes, the rumors are true. This is my fourth show, and she's the biggest diva I've ever worked with. Someone got fired last week because they moved one of her gold stars. No one's allowed to have fun, like, _ever._ She's totally lame."

"Good to know. That impressive though, I think _you're_ the big shot. Also explains those outrageous dance moves,"

"Well, I dance like that, just like you've got your _alcohol and ladies._ I can't exactly get down how I want on stage, so I get some relief from doing the same thing over and over again by dancing on my own."

"So no alcohol or ladies for you?" Santana asks, taking a long sip of black coffee from her cup, when the waitress drops it off.

"Alcohol bloats me, and that's the last thing I need when I've gotta zip my costume."

"Playing coy on the other, cute. I'm sure you just tap girls on the shoulder all the time and they follow you right onto the dance floor."

"I usually don't leave the floor, actually. _You_ were a special case."

"Oh was I?" Santana twirls her hair, leaning over a little to give Brittany a better view.

"You were. You just looked so miserable not dancing that I couldn't help myself. I have to say though, your date had some bitchin' hair."

"Want her number? She's from San Fran, but if you feel like calling long distance, maybe next time she's in town, she can tell you all about her band. They cover Madonna and only Madonna."

"Madonna like _Holiday_ Madonna? Doesn't she have like five songs?"

"Not even, please. Worst date ever, but I was doing my cousin a favor. They went to Berkeley together, and she was in town. He thought we'd have something in common. All we had in common is that we both like girl's asses, and even that's questionable, since she didn't even look at _you_ on the dance floor."

"Are you saying you like my ass, Santana." Brittany winks, and Santana, despite her bravado, feels her cheeks flush.

"I mean, have you seen yourself?"

"Duh. And you've got a pretty fine one yourself. I'm glad Violet Beauregard bored you."

"Violet Beauregard? Like from _Willy Wonka?"_

"The one and only, that was the first movie I ever saw in the theater. But yeah, good news about her bring lame. Nice _I_ get to be the one who takes you home."

"Oh, so you're taking me home then?"

"Well unless you're walking."

"You mean _actually_ taking me home?"

"What do you think? I might be on a dancer's salary, but I always buy someone dinner before u take them home like _that_ , and this crappy coffee and overcooked eggs doesn't count. And also, no thanks to that number. I'm not sure she'd want to go out with me anyway, I kind of stole her date, didn't I? Besides, I think I'd much rather have _yours_ , then I can call you about that dinner."

"You're pretty smooth, aren't you?"

"We'll see if it works." She presses her tongue between her teeth, sliding a napkin and a crayon from the cup that sits by the ketchup across the table to Santana. "If it does, I guess so."

Santana laughs at Brittany, purposefully holding off on writing down her number. Not because she won't, she actually finds herself hoping that Brittany actually _will_ call. It's rare that a girl gets her like that. She's usually achingly serious, and mostly intolerant of other humans, but there's just something about this woman. The way she combines the sexiness she exudes, what with the cockiness and the leather jacket and the bike, with what can only be described as cute—her smiley face shirt, the way she talks about her fat cat and the escapades she has with her _four_ roommates, the two men from the club included, it seems—it's unreal. The eggs are as overcooked as Brittany had warned Santana about, but they don't bother her. Not when blue eyes are dancing, and she finds herself having far more fun than she'd ever expected to have when a warm hand brushed her arm in that dingy bathroom corridor.

The sun is just on the brink of rising when they finally leave the restaurant, and when they leave the diner, it's much cooler than it was just an hour earlier. Santana hugs Brittany's jacket to herself as goosebumps rise on her bare thighs, and Brittany just smiles. She seems unaffected by the cold, even in just her t-shirt, but Santana takes a breath to steel herself from the bite of the air and makes to give back her jacket. Brittany simply shakes her head, squeezing Santana's forearm, and hops on her bike, waiting for Santana to put the helmet on and follow suit. This time, she presses further into Brittany's back, resting her chin on a tight shoulder, noticing the wingtips of a small bird that peek out from beneath the white t-shirt, inked into her skin. Santana sucks in another breath of Brittany's scent, and something about it just calms her, unwinds further the tight coil that is her very being.

It's strange for Santana, the twisting in her lower belly when Brittany turns off Park, and glides onto morning-quiet Eighty-Third street. Many a Sunday morning, she's crept home at this time, head held high, even with smudged makeup and rumpled clothes, but she's always alone, and she's always content to be. She carries on her affairs outside of her home, never letting any of the women she'd seen see any of her life beyond the little they'd gleaned in a few short hours together. Even Santana's closest friends, they rarely make it behind the white marble face of the townhouse she lives in, it's an oasis for her, away from the world. But yet, here Brittany is, pulling up in front of Santana's home, and here Santana is, low ache thrumming through her body at the thought of saying good night. She wonders, vaguely, if it's because she hasn't slept with her that changes things, but she immediately knows that's not the case. The sparks she'd felt when Brittany had first touched her arm, they've grown stronger now. They seem to tingle sharply all throughout Santana's body, they seem to be telling her something, something she's actually listening to.

"Thanks for the ride." Santana gets off the bike as smoothly as she possibly can, feeling the rush of cool air against her front, with the absence of Brittany's body heat. "And for breakfast too."

"No sweat. Thanks for having it with me." Brittany watches as Santana slips out of her jacket, folding it over her arm, before offering it up. Slowly, Brittany takes it, her eyes on Santana's face, drifting down to her lips. Santana takes a step closer, feeling the gaze on her, and she doesn't hesitate, before she leans in, leaving only an inch of space between her face and Brittany's.

"I had a really good time." She breathes. "Maybe I'll even give you that napkin before I go inside."

"I sure hope you do." Brittany runs her tongue over her lower lip, and Santana can almost feel the way she swallows. Not wasting another moment, Santana takes a deep breath of all that Brittany is, and finally leans in, catching her lips. It doesn't last long, they're on a public street, after all, and even in the early morning hours, it's probably not the best idea. When Santana pulls back, those blue eyes searching her face, she's breathless. "Wow."

"Yeah." Santana laughs nervously, before she reaches down the front of her dress, pulling out the napkin she'd placed there, neat red numbers written across it. She trails her fingers down Brittany's arm and presses the folded napkin into her hand. Santana Lopez doesn't leave bars to go to diners in the middle of the night. Santana Lopez doesn't look into girls eyes while she slips phone numbers into their open palms. Santana Lopez doesn't hope that said girls call. And yet, here she is. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Yeah. Yeah you most definitely will."


	2. And When She Wakes Up and Makes Up Her M

When she returns home, Brittany sleeps the morning away. It's Lauren who wakes her up, coming home from an early shift and banging a heavy fist on the door of the bedroom they share with Tina. Brittany had locked it, but Lauren threatens to break it down if she doesn't let her in. Normally, Brittany would grumble getting up, grumble at not having a few hours of privacy, when she thought everyone else would be out of the apartment, but she doesn't, not today. Not after meeting Santana.

Before work, Brittany still has two hours to kill. She looks at the phone for awhile, considering calling Santana. It's too soon though, she thinks. She'd just gotten home six hours ago, and something about Santana tells Brittany that she doesn't want to come on too strong. So she grabs her Walkman and she goes to the park instead. Tompkins Square Park is gross. There are rats, there's broken glass, there's a several homeless people who live there, but Brittany loves it. She loves this city, in all its grittiness, it's the reason she came here after all—well, that and Broadway, she definitely couldn't have danced like this back home in Mesa, Arizona—and she doesn't hesitate to take advantage of every moment of it.

She goes to the park dressed for work. A leotard and tights, her leg warmers, and a windbreaker over them. The fall is coming on hard, and she won't be able to go out like this for much longer—and Artie and Mike tell her that she shouldn't go out like this at all—but she likes to warm up before she gets there. She likes to be one step ahead of everyone else. She figures it's the only way she'll ever be able to get ahead, the only way she'll ever be more than just a chorus girl in a show where her job is on the line every time she opens her mouth.

Brittany talks to Bud for awhile. He'd been in Vietnam, and Brittany always buys him coffee. She may not have much, but she knows that she's got a lot more than him. She buys him coffee, and in return, Bud always watches out for her. As much as her friends worry, Brittany always feels safe in the park. He tells her to break a leg when she leaves, and she tosses him one of the granola bars in her dance bag. She hops on her bike, and she waves goodbye to him, telling him she'll see him tomorrow. He's good to her, and she wishes there was more she could do to help him.

When Brittany gets to work, Sugar is waiting for her. She's always even more likely than Brittany to be subjected to Rachel Berry's wrath, but they stick together. They stretch on the black floor backstage, they keep away from the other dancers, from the drama, from all the cutthroat cattiness. Brittany doesn't tell her about Santana. She knows they both talk a lot of crap about the yuppies, the ones who brush past them on the street while they're outside sharing a cigarette, the ones who look right through them. But Santana is different, Brittany thinks. Santana looked at her, Santana gave her a phone number—hopefully a real one, though Brittany doesn't really doubt—and Santana didn't seem like she thought Brittany was invisible.  
Brittany is bone tired when she gets in that night. Lauren is snoring on the bunk below her, but Brittany barely hears it. She climbs the rungs of the ladder to her bed, sticks her headphones back in her ears, and she passes out. While she sleeps, she dreams of Santana. Cheesy as it is, something about this girl, she just can't shake. This girl, who looks like she's the opposite of everything Brittany goes for, she's just stuck underneath her skin, and it's making her crazy.

Monday morning, Brittany gets up. She seriously considers depositing her pay for the week at the branch on Pine Street, before she decides that's wholly insane. She has Santana's number, she could just call her and set up a date, but for all the false bravado she'd put on at the diner, for all the confidence her motorcycle and her leather jacket and her smooth dance moves exude, she's actually a complete nervous wreck, and certain that she'll trip over her words the moment she picks up the phone to dial that gorgeous girl.

So she stews in it for half the day. She knows Santana is at work anyway—clearly, their schedules don't exactly match up—she knows that by the time Santana is home to call her back, she'll have already left for the evening show. But still. Tuesdays are dark. She has the day off, and though she isn't giving Santana much notice at all, she'd really, really like to have dinner with her, or else they'll have to wait and entire week, or hope they run into each other in the club Saturday night, when Brittany heads there after the show, and truth be told, Brittany isn't sure that she can possibly wait that long.

Tina makes fun of her. Lauren makes fun of her. Mike and Artie are slightly more sympathetic, but their voices are mostly drowned out over Lauren's shouts to stop being a fricking dickweed and call the girl already, because they're tired of hearing her spazzing. At two-o'clock, she finally does. Mike manages to herd Lauren out of the apartment, since Artie and Tina have gone to work, and Brittany gives him a thumbs up, as she grabs the phone from the cradle and carefully dials the numbers printed in neat red on the napkin she may or may not have stashed in her bra for the better part of the past two days. She knows Santana isn't going to answer, it's not, like, Columbus Day or anything, she thinks that's next week, but still, Brittany twirls the coiled cord around her finger, anxiously awaiting the clicking noise that indicates the answering machine has picked up.

"Hello, you have reached the number of Santana Lopez." Santana's voice is clipped, professional, not at all like the honey sweet Brittany had heard in their early morning together. "Leave a message, and I'll return your call at my earliest convenience."

The line beeps and Brittany takes another breath. In all the thinking she'd done about making this phone call, even knowing ahead of time that she would almost certainly get the answering machine, Brittany hadn't actually considered what she was going to say. She's never had this problem before, not with women, not with men. She doesn't get nervous, but here she is, struggling not to sound like a total airhead.

"Hey, Santana, it's Brittany, you know, from the other night, or, morning, whatever. I'm off tomorrow, and I know it's kinda last minute, but I was hoping we could grab that dinner. I dunno when you're gonna be able to catch, 'cuz is like 2:15 and I'm going to head to work in a few. But tomorrow I'll just be vegging here all day, if you want to call then, or, like leave me a message or something telling me if you're up for dinner. Don't leave one with Tina though, she always forgets to tell me. Sorry, this is long and weird, I'll talk to you soon, I hope."

Slowly leaving her number, and deciding against repeating it, Brittany hangs up the phone and slams her hand against her head. She hates leaving messages, she trips over her thoughts when she does, and she hopes anything she said was coherent, especially her phone number. Figuring she really can't dwell on it or she'll be late for work, she grabs her bag and makes a mental note to ask Mike to let his brother know that she might have someone in for dinner tomorrow night. Robbie Chang owns a restaurant on Hester Street, and though Mike's parents haven't spoken to him since he brought his "friend" Artie home for Thanksgiving five years ago and they'd caught them exchanging a quick kiss on the fire escape, their younger son still keeps on contact with him. He's also very good to all of Mike's starving artist friends, something Brittany greatly appreciates whenever she has a date and wants to take them out for more than just ten for a dollar dumplings or a hot dog.

Work drags. Rachel is on one of her rampages before half of the dancers even arrive to begin warming up, and Brittany's tongue is bleeding when the curtain goes up. She has trouble starting her bike when she goes to head home, and when she finally gets it going, she pulls her jacket tight around her, the temperature having dropped a lot since she left for work. When she gets back to the apartment, everyone is away. Mike and Artie are draped across the couch, while Tina and Lauren are at the table, hundreds of bedazzler brads littering the wood surface. Brittany's definitely done her fair share of it, but tonight she's not in the mood. She's just ready for bed.

"Bar chick called." Lauren doesn't look up from the vest she'd picked up at the thrift shop last week.

"She did?" Brittany stops halfway to the bedroom and whips her head around.

"Oh yes she did, and you can tell she's a total richie just on the phone. Brittany Pierce, dating a yuppie, never thought I'd see the day."

"Okay, Zizes." She rolls her eyes. "Number one, I don't care whether she has money or not. And number two, we're not dating yet."

" _Uptown girl, you know you can't afford to buy her pearls._ " Lauren starts, and Artie, always looking for three opportunity to use his pipes, chimes immediately in. " _But maybe someday when your ship comes in, she can see what kind of girl you…is?_ "

"Bite me."

"Fine, then I guess you don't want her office number." Lauren waves the piece of paper in front of her, and Brittany snatches it right out of her hands.

"What did she say, Lauren? Or I swear, the next time that herby Mohawk guy calls, I'll tell him you're dead."

"Whoa, take a chill pill, Pierce. She said to call her in the morning, that's it."

"For real that's it?"

"Yeah, for real that's it. I don't have conversations with your girlfriend. I wanted to free up the line as fast as possible."

"Okay, fine. Mike, if she says yes…"

"You're taking her to Changs?" He completes her thought. "I'll call Robbie in the morning."

"Thanks! You're the best!" She throws him a kiss and turns back. "Night, homefries. I'm taking a shower and hitting the sack."

The next morning, Brittany is the first one awake. She creeps out of the bedroom, and she pours herself a bowl of cereal. The clock on the stove reads 9:05, and she doesn't want to call immediately after Santana gets into the office. So she eats her cereal, she makes coffee, she has another bowl, and she watches the numbers creep slowly forward. She washes her dish, she pours another cup of coffee, and finally, it's 9:37, and 9:37 seems like a completely reasonable time to call Santana. Sitting back on the couch, Brittany dials another set of numbers, making a mental note to write it in her book below the other (and maybe, maybe beneath Santana's name with a tiny heart next to it).

"Chemical Bank, you've reached the desk of Terri Schuester."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong number." Brittany stutters a little. "I was looking for Santana Lopez."

"Honey, haven't you ever heard of an assistant? You think Miss Lopez answers her own phone?" The woman laughs, fake, Brittany thinks, and she pops her gum. "That'd make my job way too easy. Who'd you say was calling?"  
"Brittany, Brittany Pierce."

"Okay, let me find out if she's in a meeting, or if she wants me to lie and tell you she's in a meeting."

"Uh, okay, sure."

Terrible hold music plays for about thirty seconds, until Brittany hears someone pick up the phone, and then possibly drop it on the floor, before regaining a hold of it.

"Hello." Santana's voice is breathy, and so, so incredibly sexy, even through a phone line. "Santana Lopez speaking."

"Good morning, Santana Lopez." Brittany smiles to herself, feeling her smoothness return now that she's not dealing with machines or assistants, but just Santana herself. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Just, bank stuff. I could take a few minutes away, my employees might send you a thank you card for allowing them to escape my wrath."

"Bad morning?"

"The worst, actually. But—" she can almost see Santana waving it away. "Not worrying about it now. I'm glad you called yesterday."

"And I'm glad you called back. So, Lauren said you didn't answer my question or anything?"

"Lauren is terrifying. She barely let me give her my number before she hung up on me. I have better phone calls with my mother."

"I'm sorry." Brittany wrinkles her nose and narrows her eyes toward the bedroom door. "Although, I'd rather you talk to me than her anyway."

"Me too. And yes, I'll have dinner with you tonight. I won't be out of here until six…"

"How about I pick you up then?"

"On your bike?"

"No, not on my bike." Brittany laughs, hearing Santana's ring through the other end of the phone. "Although you'd like that, wouldn't you? The wind whipping through that sexy power suit I'm sure you're wearing."

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, yes." She ignores the fact that the question is rhetorical, then softens her voice a little. "It's okay that I pick you up at work?"

"It's fine." Brittany thinks she can hear her sigh a little, and she totally gets it. "You know…"

"I know."

"I'll see you at six then?"

"I'll see you at six."

The day can't go fast enough for Brittany. She does her usual day off routine, grocery shopping, laundry, messing around in the park for awhile, and finds its only 2:45 when she's done. She groans at how slow time moves, then pops in one of Tina's Jane Fonda workout tapes and does the regiment with ease, wishing someone else was home to do something with her. An hour before she needs to leave, she finally starts getting ready, teasing her hair, putting on makeup, and finally deciding on a tight green dress, not wanting Santana to feel over dressed if she wore jeans instead.

She drops her bike off outside of Changs, in case she needs it later, and takes the J train to Wall Street, avoiding the leering glares of its requisite creepers. She could have walked, really, but in all her wasting time, she'd actually run out of it. It's 5:50, when she leans against the wall beside the bank, and she tries to pretend that she's not watching every single person who walks out the door, in hopes that it's Santana, early.

"Hey." She finally hears the voice she's been waiting for and she snaps her head up. Brittany's eyes widen, just a little, as they run over Santana, that delicious black pant suit and fitted blazer even sexier than Brittany had expected. When she meets Santana's eyes, the woman has a wry look on her face, and Brittany chokes out a laugh. "Did I keep you waiting long?"

"Nope, ready to go?"

"Totally. Where are we going?"

"Chinatown, you like dim sum?"

"Can't say I've had it, honestly."

"Well then, babe," Brittany grins wide, eyes full of excitement. "You're in for a real treat."

Robbie Chang's restaurant is bustling, it always is. Save for a few yuppies in their business suits looking to attract foreign investors—looking significantly less attractive than Santana, Brittany decides—the clientele is mostly Asian, and over the din of silverware and dishes clinking, it's mostly Chinese that can be heard. When Robbie sees Brittany, he stops what he's doing and rushes over, hugging her, before quickly escorting the two women to a semi-private booth in the back. As Santana settles in, unbuttoning her blazer and revealing the crisp pale peach button-up beneath it, Brittany watches, not leering, really, just appreciating. When the waitress comes over with a pot of tea, Brittany nods in appreciation and offers a _xièxie_ to her.

"You speak Chinese?" Santana sounds surprised.

"Nope, that's pretty much the extent of it. It's fun coming here with Mike though, he orders things in Chinese and I'm totally surprised."

"That sounds…sort of terrifying."

"Nah, he avoids the chicken feet salad and like, intestine-y stuff for me."

"You're really selling the place, aren't you?" Santana quirks an eyebrow, but Brittany can see the smile that curls at the corners of her mouth.

"It's good, I promise." Brittany lets her pinky finger brush the side of Santana's hand, and though she jumps a little at first, she settles and twists her own pinky with Brittany's.

"Sorry…"

"No, no, I totally get it. Being in the club or in the diner in the middle of the night is totally different." She shrugs. "But Robbie saves this table for a reason, he's not like Mike's parents."

"I'm guessing they're not cool with him and Artie?"

"Not cool is a serious understatement."

"Mine…pretend they don't know." Santana begins, and it surprises Brittany that this seemingly reserved woman is opening up to her right away. "I mean, I guess we all just pretend. My mother stopped asking me when I'm going to get married, stopped trying to hook me up with the 'nice Puerto Rican boy from the grocery store'" She crooks her fingers in the air and rolls her eyes. "And I pretty much just have my obligatory phone calls with her once a week, and go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine, sorry, I'm totally dragging our date down."

"You're not, I wouldn't have asked you out if I didn't want to know about you. Did your day get any better at work?"

"It did." She smiles softly, squeezing Brittany's pinky a little as she says it. "It's still the bank, but…"

"You don't love your job, huh?"

"I love having money to buy what I want and not having to follow my parents rules to access a trust fund I don't want."

"Okay." Brittany doesn't press the issue further, she just looks at Santana, and she pours tea for both of them. "I can totally understand that."

"What about you, Brittany? Do you love what you do?"

"I love dancing. I don't love this Rachel Berry shitshow, but I love that I get to get on stage every night and do the thing that makes me the happiest."

"I'd really like to see it." Santana smiles softly. "Is that weird? I mean, I know we just met, but you sound so amped when you talk about it…"

"Nah, I don't think so. Sorry, we don't get like, family and friends discounts or anything."

"You're really cute." She presses her tongue between her teeth, and Brittany blushes at her words. "And knowing I was having dinner with you definitely contributed to my afternoon being better."

"Well then, I better not disappoint. So tell me, besides chicken feet, is there anything you won't eat?"

The conversation flows easily, and Brittany lets Robbie choose what to bring them. As Santana expresses her approval of her first dim sum experience, Brittany's chest feels tight with excitement. The date is going well, so well, despite Brittany's nervous jitters and Santana's predilection for being slightly (perhaps a gross understatement) uptight. When Santana makes an effort to pay, Brittany waves her off, and she stands up, chatting with Robbie in the front of the restaurant as not to make a big deal that neither of them will actually pay—though probably, Santana has already figured that out.

"Can I take you home?" Brittany asks, leading Santana to the edge of the alley, where she'd left her bike.

"I was going to take a cab…I don't really do the subway at night, or, well, ever. But, you can come with me, if you wanted to go back to my place and have a glass of wine or coffee, sorry, you don't drink."

"With you, I'll have a glass of wine." Brittany grins, and it makes Santana smile too. She considers making a joke about working it off, but she's unsure of Santana's humor, particularly with sexual innuendos. "Let's do it, babe."

For the second time in three nights, Santana accepts the worn in leather jacket that Brittany hands to her, and straps the helmet beneath her chin. It's funny, Brittany thinks, the way she considers the need for another helmet in a way she never has before. This is fine, perfect, actually, Santana in her things—particularly that jacket, watching Santana zip it up over her chest might be Brittany's new favorite sight—but if, maybe this becomes a thing, more than just a late night breakfast and an amazing first date, then Santana needs a helmet of her own.

Where Santana was cautious the night after the bar, Brittany can feel the difference in her behavior now. Arms wrap around her waist, and as Santana's chin finds a resting place on her shoulder, Brittany needs to take a moment before she kicks on the engine and lifts her feet. It's a distraction, truly, as she zips across a Canal Street, but a welcome one, one Brittany Pierce will take any day of her life. A beautiful woman on the back of her bike, a beautiful woman who's so much more than what Brittany had seen as first glance, she can hardly believe any of this is even happening.

When they arrive outside of Santana's home, Brittany parks across the street. Her bike is out of place on the quiet Upper East Side street, but it's safer, she figures, than most places she leaves it. She takes her helmet back from Santana, and she tucks it beneath her arm, following just a half a step behind as they make their way up the stone stairs, and Santana unlocks the heavy door. It's a different world here, a far cry from the life she's carved out for herself in that cramped and busy apartment, a far cry, even, from the quiet Arizona suburb she left behind to find her place on the Great White Way, but it feels right, so right, particularly when Santana cocks her head to the side, and twinkling dark eyes invite her in.

Brittany feels the electricity beneath her skin, the instant she enters. She feels this shift, Santana's public self, to her most private, and she slips Brittany's jacket from her shoulders, hanging it neatly, before finally removing her still unbuttoned blazer. In the low light of the entryway, Brittany takes in Santana, stunning, relaxed, maybe more important than anything. The tops of her breasts peek from her shirt, and Brittany swallows, trying to contain her undeniable desire for this gorgeous creature. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can figure out the words to say, she feels a thumb press against her lips, she feels Santana's hand, warm from where it had rested on Brittany's midsection, fall to rest on her cheek. There's not much more Brittany wants than to kiss Santana—well, at this exact moment—to kiss her properly, in a way she couldn't in Sunday's early hours in the street just twenty feet from where she now stands, and she sucks in a breath, the shared space between them charged.

"Hey." Santana murmurs, leaning in just enough so the very tip of her nose touches Brittany's. Brittany can nearly taste her, she licks her lips, she inhales.

"Hi." Brittany speaks back, sounding more like a low growl, tones vibrating where Santana's hand rests. They savor the moment, close, so close, before Brittany closes the gap.

She could kiss Santana forever. She'd figured as much the first time their lips had touched, but this, this kiss Brittany has been waiting for, it's completely different. It makes her head spin. It makes her body throb. Santana gives Brittany control of it. She parts her lips, and she allows Brittany to deepen it, soft tongue flicking across her lower lip, long fingers threading through dark hair. When Santana lifts her leg to wrap it around Brittany's waist, the heel of her other shoe catches, and she stumbles a little, lucky for Brittany's grasp on her, lucky for strong arms and quick reflexes. Brittany doesn't stop kissing, once she's sure she's got a tight hold on Santana, the feeling of Santana's thigh around her own making her dizzier, dizzier, until she thinks she might stumble too. It's Santana who tilts her head back then, separating their lips, but barely, it's Santana who looks at Brittany, pupils blown, dark and pull of desire, it's Santana who makes Brittany twist and yearn inside. It's Santana, who seems to know that if they don't stop, even if only for a moment, they may both explode.  
The stand for several moments, bodies pressed together, as they catch their breath. Santana's hands tickle Brittany's shoulder, tracing, Brittany realizes, the wings of the bird there. She's not sure how she doesn't without seeing, but she does. She does, and Brittany shivers, the soft touch of fingers on skin overwhelming right now, overwhelming as everything about Santana seems to be both too much and not enough all at once.

"How about that wine?" Santana asks, finally, her voice raspy, as she swallows away the dryness.

"Okay." Brittany finds herself nodding, finds herself leaning into Santana's touch, as she presses her hand into her lower back and leads her to the white leather sectional in her living room. She has to pinch her eyes shut, just for a moment, has to clear the vision of Santana on her back beneath her on this couch, black hair splayed out, buttons undone, chest heaving, from her mind. She's almost entirely unsuccessful there, but still, Brittany manages to croak, "Wine is good. Wine is really good."


	3. Only Know It's a Matter Of Time

Once Brittany is seated, Santana watches. She has to watch. She doesn't want to watch. Blue eyes take in the room around her. They take in Santana's too-expensive useless crap. They take in dumb crystal statues that Santana bought simply because she could. They take it all in, and Santana, she suddenly feels incredibly self-conscious. She's had girls here before, sure, she's had many girls here, if she's being honest. She's had girls here, and she's wanted to impress them with her wealth. She's wanted them to ooh and ahh over her purchasing power, her job at the bank, her big fancy townhouse, her lavish dates—one date, only one date, always—to see her as something special, something larger than life, something she'd struggled her whole life to feel for herself. Her money made their clothes fall off, she'd laughed about it, with her close friends, but now, now this is something different. Brittany is something different, Brittany makes her want to be more than that, to have more than what money can buy, and again, if she's being honest, that thought terrifies Santana.

"I'll be back with the wine." She manages. "Make yourself at home."

Santana makes her way into the kitchen. It's big and clean—Millie, her housekeeper, comes four days a week—and Santana rarely eats at home anyway, so it stays mostly spotless—and she leans back against the counter, sucking in as much air as she possibly can. She can't believe how nervous she is, she can't believe how much she wants to impress Brittany Pierce, and she can't believe that she has absolutely no idea how. Standing on her tip toes, Santana takes two glasses for white down from the glass fronted cabinet. She inspects them slowly, though she has no real reason to, it's just something to fill time while she gets herself together. Santana doesn't do this, she doesn't get nervous around women, she's _good at_ women, at least once she gets past her own anxiety, and sometimes weird first impressions. She knows how to charm them, to woo them, if only for a single night, but really, from the first time she met Brittany, she knew that she wasn't like anyone else.

Opening the door to the wine fridge below her counter, Santana inspects the bottles. She never orders wine in the bar, stemmed glasses make her nervous in public, but at home, particularly when she's alone, she considers herself a bit of a connoisseur. So she turns the bottles in the refrigerator slowly. She's not sure which to open, she's not sure which seems like she's trying too hard, or which Brittany would even like. It's ridiculous. She knows it's ridiculous, it's wine for God's sake, but still, it must take her a good six minutes to pull a bottle of Chardonnay, and another two to pop the cork, cautious that she doesn't cut herself, or let the bottle slip from her hands and shatter on the floor. She pours it into the two glasses, and she considers taking a swig of it straight from the bottle before she goes back to the living room—she's definitely never done _that_ before—and then begins to worry whether or not she should bring out some kind of snack.

Santana begins rummaging through her refrigerator, hoping Millie cooked something, as she often does, though Santana rarely ends up eating it, and she happens across a container of chocolate chip cookies, just as she hears the sound of Lou Gramm's voice floating from her turntable in the other room. _It feels so right, so warm and true. I need to know if you feel it too._ She stops, dead in her tracks, the cookies forgotten, when she feels a presence in the room, and when she turns around, Brittany is right behind her, hips swaying, eyes smoldering.

"Hi." She smiles, and Santana's knees feel weak again. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't like…fall into the fridge or anything."

"No." Santana laughs, a real laugh. "Just picking wine, seeing if there was anything to eat, in case you were hungry…"

"I'm not. We just ate a _ton_ of dim sum, but thanks. I hope you don't mind…" Brittany gestures to the air, _This heart of mine has been hurt before. This time I want be be sure_ "I found your choice LP collection while I was waiting, and I couldn't help myself."

"No, no, please. I'm glad you did. Foreigner, nice call."

"I put _Rumours_ away. Totally rocking album though, and I considered leaving it on, but I thought this maybe fit the mood more. I totally approve in your musical taste, Santana Lopez."

Santana shivers at the way Brittany says her name. She swallows the nervous lump in her throat as Brittany moves closer to her, opening her arms so Santana can step into them. Without question, she does, and Brittany nudges the door of the refrigerator shut with her foot. Lithe arms encircle Santana's waist, and she breathes deeply, Pert and Raffinee, and still that something else, the something she's been trying to figure since they'd first danced in the club. But she doesn't stop to think about it now. Instead, she brings her arms up around Brittany's neck, pinky tapping where the little bird is, heart racing as Brittany pulls her closer.

In her five years living in this place, Santana has never danced in the kitchen before. She's never had anyone to dance with, and she never thought she was missing out. But now, with Brittany's heartbeat against her own, she feels like she has a lifetime to make up for, and with Brittany, who she's known for only hours, really, when she totals it up, she somehow feels like she's found someone to make that time up with. It's a thought that would scare her, no, terrify her, in any other circumstance, but right now, as Brittany's hand presses into her lower back, as she dips her just slightly, Santana can't think of anything but blue eyes and the way this girl intoxicates her. _Yeah, waiting for a girl like you, to come into my life._

 __Santana is breathless as the song ends, but she tries to play it cool. She slips smoothly from Brittany's embrace, and moves to the counter, lifting the two glasses, and pressing one into Brittany's extended hand, careful that she has the stem in her grasp. They move to the living room without a word, Santana grazing her hand over the dimmer switch to lower the lights, just a little, and knees brushing when they sit back on the sectional. Santana feels like words have escaped her, being in Brittany's presence, it makes her whole body feel like jelly, but she smiles. She smiles, and she knows that her eyes sparkle when she looks at Brittany, she knows they sparkle as she sips her wine, and watches as Brittany does the same.

They talk, as they finish the bottle of wine, the music slipping into _Girl On the Moon_. This isn't something Santana has ever done before, sitting on her sofa talking about the bank heist in Connecticut that has her own security under all kinds of new screening, debating whether _Risky Business_ lives up to the hype—Brittany says yes, Santana says no— and just enjoying each other's company. When Santana takes her final sip and sets the empty glass down on the table, she's a little tipsy, but in a good way. In that warm, light kind of way, the way that makes her stop worrying about every step she takes, the way that makes her forget to think about how how matter what she's done to be successful in her life, she's still failing to live up to her parents' expectations. The way that makes all of this, right here, with Brittany, not feel like something she has to hide under the rug.

There's a lull in conversation when the wine is gone. Santana feels how Brittany watches her, eyes flitting across her face, studying her every twitch and tick. Brittany moves closer, so slowly, that if Santana wasn't entirely focused on her, she wouldn't notice, and gently, a warm hand falls to rest on Santana's knee, palm just below where the hem of her skirt lands. Feeling it there, Santana sucks in a breath, and when her own hand settles on top of it, Brittany's other cups her cheek, drawing Santana in, so their lips are scarcely a hair apart. Before she connects them, Santana takes another breath, she lets herself feel the crackling adrenaline, and then she presses into Brittany, sighing, as she parts her lips.

They kiss. Brittany's hand moves from Santana's knee, teasing at the edge of her skirt, before trailing up her side and falling to rest just beneath her right breast, thumb brushing the underside of it every so often, making Santana shiver. Santana winds her hands in Brittany's hair, pulling her closer, closer, until Brittany swings her leg over Santana and straddles her lap, dress riding up to the top of her thighs. Santana sinks back into the cushions on the back of the couch and she keeps her eyes open, gasping at the intensity of the look in Brittany's eyes.

Santana is overcome by Brittany's everything. Her hands roaming her body, her overwhelming scent, the way her tongue curls with Santana's own. She typically prides herself on her sexual prowess—or, at the very least, sexual competence—but now, with this gorgeous woman on top of her, fingers playing with shirt buttons, that seems to be lacking severely, and she feels like a fumbling sixteen year old. She's hot, her skin is actually on fire, she thinks, and when Brittany gets Santana's shirt undone, revealing her pale pink lace bra, she actually feels relief at the cool air hitting her skin. She feels relief, but it's short lived, when Brittany's lips trail from her mouth down the column of her neck and just to where her breasts spill over her bra. She kisses there, skin burning in her wake, eyes burning into Santana's, and finally finding her head, Santana toys with the zipper of her dress, before slowly, slowly pulling it down.

"Do you want to take this to the bedroom?" Santana rasps, her fingers tracing the ridges of Brittany's spine.

Brittany doesn't answer. She continues with her openmouthed kisses on the tops of Santana's breasts, over her bra, making Santana's body hum, even though clothing keeps her from the full pleasure of it, it's sight to behold. She looks into Santana's eyes, coy smile curling on her face against sensitive skin, and she hooks her hands under Santana's ass, lifting her up into her arms. Immediately, Santana's ankles lock around Brittany's waist, heels still on her feet, and she tilts Brittany's head up so that she can kiss her once more, hard on the mouth, while she presses her body further into Brittany's.

"Where's the bedroom?" Brittany husks, running her thumb along the clasp of Santana's bra, eager to unsnap it to grant herself better access. "You skipped the tour."

"You want a tour?" Santana's breaths are ragged, and she nips the underside of Brittany's chin. "Second door on the left, I'll save the rest for morning."

Hoisting Santana up higher so she doesn't drop her, Brittany wastes no time following her directions to the bedroom. Though she'd ordinarily stop and gape at the opulence of the room, she barely registers more than where the bed is, and she quickly pulls back the comforter and sets Santana down on the satin sheets. Her eyes roam over her, clad in only her skirt and bra, dark beauty, much like on the sofa, in stark contrast to the pale sheets beneath her.

As Brittany shrugs her dress from her body and climbs back on top of Santana in only a black bra and barely there matching panties, Santana swallows hard and rakes her eyes over every inch of her flawless body. She's a dancer, obviously she's in great shape, but knowing it and being able to…appreciate it are two different things entirely. When Brittany unclasps her own bra, Santana can't help but bring her hands up immediately, thumbs brushing pink nipples and palms savoring the weight of them. Brittany hisses at the sensation, and Santana, regaining her confidence, sits up and replaces her hands with her mouth. Slowly, she dances her fingers down Brittany's ribcage, and hooks her thumbs into the elastic of Brittany's panties, sliding them down her legs, leaving Brittany completely naked atop her.

Lost in the sensation of Santana's tongue circling her nipple, and a strong thigh rising up to tense between her own, Brittany drops her head back and weaves her fingers through thick, wavy locks, nails scratching at her scalp. Santana can't tear herself from Brittany's blissed out face, and when blue eyes gaze back down at her, she presses her thigh harder, determined to make Brittany feel good. The moan that she gets in response makes her smirk into Brittany's skin, but she's taken by surprise when she's pushed back on the bed, and Brittany slides her shirt down her arms and quickly rids her of her bra before she even has time to register her motions.

Blunt nails drag down Santana's sides, and she lifts her hips as Brittany works her zipper, and slips her skirt down, fingers electrifying her skin. The shoes drop from Santana's feet when Brittany presses on her knees, spreading her legs apart. She stares, mouth agape, as Brittany swipes the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, hands resting at the tops of Santana's thigh highs. Even with panties still on, Brittany looks ready to devour her, and Santana tries unsuccessfully to wet the dryness in her throat at what's before her. The sight of Brittany between her legs, it's surreal. This isn't something she normally _does_ , it's always felt too intimate and sort of _invasive_ , almost, if she's being truthful, for someone she'll never see again, come morning to pleasure her like that. But Brittany is different. She thinks about cooking breakfast for Brittany, not giving her a twenty for her cab ride home. She thinks about a second date, not huffing as she dabs toothpaste on the side of her neck, trying to hide a hickey that she doesn't the world to see. She thinks this could be something real, that she could _let_ it be. When Brittany ducks her head and presses a kiss to Santana's clothed sex, she shudders and releases a gasp, not expecting the action.

"Shit." Santana hisses through her teeth, making Brittany jerk her head up and Santana's cheeks flush when she realizes she spoke aloud.

"You okay, babe?" Brittany's voice is scratchy, as her fingers graze the elastic of Santana's stockings.

"Yeah, totally." Santana nods, really, desperately trying not to combust when Brittany moves her kisses lower, trailing them down her inner thighs, and then following the path of where she removes nylon from her toned legs.

It's agonizing, the way Brittany completes his disrobing of Santana, kisses, nips, tongue, down her thighs, behind her knees, on the insides of her ankles, and then back up again. When Brittany finally removes Santana's soaked panties, and drags her tongue over the spot of her own wetness that she'd left from grinding into the thigh of the girl beneath her, Santana writhes on the bed, _aching_ to be touched where she throbs, _aching_ for perfect pink lips to move higher and grant her the pleasure they seem to promise. It doesn't take long for Santana's desire to come true. Brittany bites gently at the very top of Santana's inner thigh, suckling the skin when the other woman releases a guttural moan, before she's even touched her waiting center. Truly, if Brittany is this good at foreplay, Santana is afraid she might die, and when Brittany finally parts her and slips her tongue through her, Santana's hands scrabble at empty space, unsure whether to grip the bedsheets, or wind her hands through Brittany's hair, pulling her closer, begging her never to stop.

In rare form, Santana is entirely unabashed as Brittany works her mouth against her, lips encircling her throbbing clit. She cants her hips up, seeking more, and her hands, they've split the difference, one grasping at silk beneath her and the other, cradling the back of Brittany's head. For as long as she's been sleeping with women, it's been, in great part, an outlet for her to unwind, but now, as she whimpers and moans, as she gasps, as she comes close to begging Brittany for more, to never stop the magic she's making with her tongue, she knows it's the first time she's ever fully let go, the first time she's ever let a person see her at her most raw.

"Fuck! Brittany!" Santana cries out, orgasm seizing her, making her body quake and her thighs bracket Brittany's ears, trapping her between them. "Ugh! Fuck!"

Tears fill Santana's eyes as she feels Brittany building her up again, before she's even come down the first time. She's gentler, longer laps of her tongue, and fingers, slipping in, seeking out a spot her tongue can't reach, but still, Santana's stomach knots and coils, her lips quiver, her hips rise in response to Brittany's mouth. Her fingers wind tight in blonde locks this time, and her eyes, they stay open, memorizing the sight of burning blue, of the woman who feels like she's made to pleasure her, made to make her life better in every possible way. She arches her back as she comes again, her hand releasing the sheets as she brings it to Brittany's face, pushing her back, making her stop, before she actually dies right there in her very own bed.

When Santana lifts her head back up, the sight of Brittany, still naked between her legs, and propped up on her elbows, hair messed and mouth glistening might be what does her in. It has to be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and even panting and jellied, Santana savors it, before she urges her upward, desperate, for the first time in her life, to taste herself on a woman's lips. She jolts again, when Brittany's nipples brush hers, and she strokes her thumb on a soft cheek, sighing in this strange contentment when Brittany's lips come down upon hers, and she opens her mouth, inviting her in.

While Brittany kisses her, Santana's hands wander the perfect body above her, exploring, worshipping. They map the swell of her ass, her defined abs, her strong legs, and finally, they dip into wet molten heat. Brittany grinds down on her, chasing a release that's been a long time coming, and Santana is eager to please. She rolls her onto her back, pressing into her as she makes slow, tight circles, and she bites down on Brittany's bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. Brittany's whine thrums through Santana's body, and when she thrusts two fingers inside of her, she feels her sex clamp down, drawing her deeper.

"You're so sexy." Santana breathes in Brittany's ear, flicking her tongue along the shell of it.

"God, Santana! Ugh—I need—"

Curling her fingers inside, Santana's thumb presses Brittany's clit, making her shake and whimper, making Santana feel like the most powerful woman in the world, making this sex goddess writhe and whimper, her feet digging into the sheets. Santana's name escapes her lips when she comes, and then comes again, without Santana doing much different to spur it again, waves rolling through her body, and Santana kisses her, sweaty forehead falling to rest on Brittany's. With the last bit of energy she has, Brittany rolls, pulling Santana on top of her. The dead weight on Santana as they both take deep, gasping breaths, is comforting, somehow, where it would normally oppress her—Santana doesn't like feeling constricted, not ever, until now, where she thinks she might prefer this feeling forever, Brittany's heat beating against hers, Brittany's blonde hair curtaining her vision, Brittany's sex still throbbing where her fingers remain buried.

They lay like that for a long time, not sleeping, not talking, just Ibeing./I It surprises Santana, when Brittany finally shimmies onto her side, so not to fall asleep on top of Santana, that she's the one who immediately cuddles in, her back pressing into Brittany's front, her hands, seeking out Brittany's to play with until she lets sleep come. She feels secure, she feels cared for, and it's strange. Brittany is a stranger, mostly. They've gone on one and a half dates, but still, it feels more, it feels bigger, it makes Santana want the things she never lets herself want, it makes Santana ache to have this woman in her bed all the time, this woman in her _life_ even more, and when she falls asleep, Brittany nuzzling into her neck, Brittany pressing a kiss on her bare shoulder blade, she feels content in a way she never knew existed.

In the early morning hours, long before her alarm goes off for work, Santana awakes. She's never been much of a sleeper, she's far too high strung, and her mind moves too fast for that, but when she feels Brittany's arms still encircling her waist, Brittany's bare breasts against her back, Brittany's soft breaths in her ear, Brittany's legs tangled with her own, Brittany's everything, sleep warm and soft, Santana keeps her eyes closed longer than she ordinarily would, she savors that feeling. She quells her fears that this all may be fleeting, and she lies there, just for a few more moments, before she slips from her embrace, eager to make her coffee and breakfast, before she has to leave for the day.

Snatching her discarded blouse from the floor, Santana slides it up her arms, letting it fall, unbuttoned, against her body. She watches Brittany as she rakes her hands through her hair, tying it back in a messy bun, rather than try and tame the mess it's become. Brittany looks beautiful there, in the soft morning light that creeps through the shaded windows. Her chest rises and falls, her hand, in Santana's absence, grips the pillow, her lips purse, and Santana inhales sharply, turning away, before she abandons her plans and simply stares creepily at her for the remainder of her slumber.

After scrubbing last nights makeup from her face and brushing her teeth, Santana pads to the kitchen, the best kind of soreness radiating from between her legs through the rest of her body, She turns on the coffee pot, scooping her imported coffee into the filter and filling the carafe from the tap. Much like she'd realized last night, she keeps very little food in the house, but she opens the refrigerator again, hoping somehow that she can make breakfast out of the things that Millie gets at Zabar's. Furrowing her brow and pulling butter, eggs, bread and milk out, Santana wonders whether Brittany likes her breakfast sweet or savory. Figuring she can possibly make them both happen, she stands on tip toes, snatching sugar and cinnamon from the cabinet above the sink. As she whisks two eggs together in a pan, adding the cinnamon and sugar, Santana hums to herself, considering deeply how much of a raise Millie Rose deserves for allowing her to fulfill her breakfast making desires.

She's got two pans on the stove, one with eggs, and one with French toast, and a cup of black coffee in front of her, her humming turned to singing, when she feels the press of a bare body behind her, a sheet, maybe, between them, the nuzzle of a chin into her shoulder, the cupping of a hand beneath her shirt. Her singing falters at the contact _Sometimes I don't know what I will find. I only know it's a matter of—_ but she leans back into Brittany's embrace, biting back a moan as strong hands massage her breasts. It's intimate and familiar, being touched like this while she cooks breakfast, it's something she's never experienced before, it's something she never thought she wanted, never _allowed_ herself to want, and yet, here she is, leaning her head back on Brittany's bare shoulders, looking into sleepy blue eyes, smiling her good morning.

"This all for you?" Brittany clicks her tongue, circling her thumb over Santana's nipple as she inspects what's on the stove. "I actually didn't peg you as the type that cooked. Sweet _and_ salty. Weird."

"I—" Santana presses her legs together, trying to stave off her rapidly building arousal and get herself together, while Brittany seems to _really_ enjoy her squirming. "I just didn't know what you liked."

"To start, I _really_ like your voice." She hums into Santana's ear, making her blink her eyes quickly, her heart hammering in her chest. Brittany's hands still knead at her chest, and Santana feels like she's on sensory overload. "Don't stop on my account."

"I—" Her words are constantly stuck in her throat around this woman, and she brings her hands up, catching Brittany's in them and bringing them to rest on her hips, fearful that she'll seriously come just from that, and then have to crawl under her sink and die. "Can't sing when you're doing that."

"Hmph." There's a pout in Brittany's voice as her fingers tickle her hip bones, inching lower, to where Santana is completely bare, she just can't keep them still, and if Santana is going to go crazy, she figures it'll be in the best possible way. "But I like those too."

"They like you right back." Santana flushes at her own admission, Brittany poking her side teasingly.

"You're so cute. Really."

"I can think of at least thirty people who will disagree with you on that. I'm pretty sure Terri has a list going."

"They're clearing buggin', babe." Her hands trail upward again, and Santana turns around, stopping her with a kiss on the mouth. "Good morning to you too."

"Really good morning." She smiles, wiping her thumb under Brittany's eye to erase a smudge of eyeliner. "Now eggs or French toast?"

"We had eggs at dinner last night." Brittany reaches over Santana and lifts her mug to her lips, taking a long sip. It's something that would drive Santana crazy, otherwise, but with Brittany, she feels a fluttering in her chest, and a smile curls at her mouth. "But since you made them, I'll have both."

Santana begins singing again, as she finishes breakfast, feeling Brittany's eyes on her the entire time. Wrapped in just the sheet she pulled from the bed, Brittany sits at one of Santana's high stools, graciously accepting her own mug of coffee. When Santana sits across from her with the plates, Brittany's toes immediately creep up her leg. She nearly spills coffee everywhere, jolting, when Brittany makes it just above her knee. She shakes her head, but the coy little smirk on Brittany's face, even as she stills her motions, just letting her foot rest there, it's something that Santana doesn't think she could ever possibly tire of.

"I had a really awesome time last night." Brittany tells her, her playfulness replaced with sincerity.

"Me too. Thank you for dinner. You'll have to tell Mike and his brother how much I enjoyed it."

"I will." She nods, and they fall into a comfortable quiet, only the scrape of forks on plates, the appreciative noises Brittany makes as she eats, and the occasional siren outside the window breaking the silence.

As much as she wishes she could take the day off of work, as much as she wishes she could fall back into bed with Brittany—never, ever has she wanted that, after a night with a woman, but then again, never _ever_ has she fallen asleep cuddling or made one breakfast—Santana knows she has to go in. The bank won't run itself, the house won't pay for itself, and she can't risk derailing the path she's set for herself. So she invites Brittany to stay as long as she wants, to relax, to rent movies on pay-per-view, if she's so inclined, to make herself at home, and she gets in the shower alone, knowing if Brittany comes in with her, her ability to get out of the house with me drastically impaired. She pulls on panties, on new thigh highs, she clasps her bra, adjusting her boobs in the bathroom mirror, and she tries not to think about Brittany taking all of that back off of her.

She does her hair, her makeup, and as she slides her arms into a blue blouse, she smiles to herself at the bruise on her collarbone, in the perfect place for her clothing to cover it—as if a message from Brittany, I _know you're a professional, but I want you to remember how you feel when you're underneath me._ Once her skirt is zipped, and she smooths herself down, she goes back into the bedroom to find her matching blazer. Brittany sits on the edge of the bed, smiling, back in her green dress, hair smoothed and makeup scrubbed away from her face, holding out her heels to her.

"You really don't have to leave." Santana accepts the shoes and slides them onto her feet, gaining three inches of height. "I know it's the crack of dawn."  
"Not much to do here with you gone." Brittany shrugs. "I never did get that tour."

"I guess you'll have to come back then." She pulls the suit jacket from her closet and quickly does the buttons.

"Looks like it. I guess that'll be what convinces me, the tour of your mansion." Brittany winks, and a laugh bubbles from Santana's throat. Brittany doesn't say it in a judging way, she doesn't say it with dollar signs in her eyes, she just _says_ it.

"Good, then we're on the same page."

Stepping between Brittany's legs, Santana sets her hands on her shoulders, just taking all of this in for a minute. It's new, it's exciting, and if she can just allow herself to take things as they come, she could really, _really_ get used to this. Brittany's hand squeezes her hip, pinching the hem of her jacket, and Santana stands there, not even leaning down to kiss her, just feeling incredibly comfortable as she is. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, bright orange 6:57 beaming at her, Santana knows she has to leave. She has phone calls to make, she has a routine to keep, and reluctantly, she steps back and offers Brittany a hand up.

"Sorry it's such an early morning." She tells her, eye level with Brittany, who's still in her bare feet.

"Totally worth it." One side of Brittany's mouth lifts up. "I'll grab a nap before work, you're the one that's gotta go deal with bank people."

"Coffee is my best friend." Santana leads Brittany back into the foyer, and once Brittany slips into her shoes and her jacket, she stand on her tiptoes, cupping her cheek and kissing her slow, deep, goodbye, before they go their separate ways. "I'll call you."

"Good, I'll be waiting for it."

Softly this time, Brittany kisses her again, her lips lingering just for a final moment. When the door opens, Santana blinks in the fall sunlight, and watches as Brittany hops on her bike. Santana steps to the curb, waiting for a cab to pass her, and she smiles one last time, her fingers twitching back, in response to Brittany's small wave over her shoulder, and her heart, in some strange sort of way, twitching too.


	4. The Second Hand Unwinds

She doesn't call. She doesn't even call _back._ Three days after their _perfect_ first date, and the absolutely amazing night together, Brittany finally caves and calls Santana herself. She gets the machine, and she leaves a message. She tries to sound breezy, but really, she's torturing herself internally. Why hasn't she called?

Brittany threatens Lauren. Not that she'd really be able to follow through on her threats—Lauren is much bigger than her, and Lauren was an actual, honest to God wrestler in high school—but still, she wants her to know that she _better not be screwing with her phone calls._ Then, when Lauren swears she doesn't care enough to mess with her phone calls, and tells her Santana really hasn't called, she mopes around the apartment. She knows they only had one real date, but _still._ It felt like something more than that. It felt like she really _meant something_ to Santana.

By the second week, Mike and Artie buy her ice cream and cheap wine. They get drunk, and Brittany maybe, just a little bit, cries over it. She feels like an idiot. She's not even the kind of girl who gets attached after sleeping with someone, but she's also not the kind of girl who hides her emotions. So she cries a little, she eats more ice cream, and Artie suggests that she get under somebody to get over Santana. She doesn't want to do that—get under somebody _or_ get over Santana. But she hasn't called, so she might not have a choice, at least on the latter.

When she's not moping or working, dancing harder than she's ever danced before, avoiding fights with Rachel Berry harder than she ever has before, she's either out with Sugar, doing shots until she feels like dancing on the bar, or taking her bike over the Williamsburg Bridge and just absently driving through Brooklyn. She figures it keeps her from riding past the bank, past Santana's house, just to make sure she's not dead or anything. But Brittany already knows she's not. She knows she's still alive and she knows that she just didn't want to call her, so she won't be that girl.

Sixteen days pass. Brittany still can't get Santana out of her head. Sugar offers to hire a hitman—her daddy knows people, she assures Brittany. Brittany declines, Santana has really great legs, and it would be an aesthetic shame for someone to break them. Plus, Brittany really likes Santana and stuff, so, even if she isn't calling her back, she doesn't want anything _bad_ to happen to her. She appreciates the sentiment though. Sugar's a good friend, better, actually, than Brittany had ever really realized. She doesn't tell Brittany that she's being dumb, sulking about a girl she's had one date with, she just buys more tequila and whoops and hollers when Brittany rolls her body to Rick Astley.

It's a Friday night. Brittany's bike is acting up, so she has to take the subway to work. Some guy pinches her ass at Fourteenth Street, and it puts her in the foulest of moods. Rachel is on a special kind of warpath. Brittany bites her tongue. She needs this job, and Rachel Berry's gigantic ego is not at all worth it. Sugar almost goes back at her, but Brittany pulls her into the dressing room, trying to just get through the night without a conflict. The show goes on, and they both are still employed, but Brittany worries. If Rachel had caught sight of Sugar's scowl on stage, she's done for. She's done for, and Brittany will be stuck with the rest of the insufferable dancers in this production who go _way_ over the top in kissing Rachel Berry ass.

When the show is over, Brittany collapses into a chair in the dressing room. Sugar is chatting away to her, but she's exhausted. She slips off the tap shoes that she wears in the final number, and she flexes her toes. She's not a natural tap dancer, so she hates that part. She's ready to go home. It's been a long week, and there's still four shows before her next day off, but in order to do that, she actually has to stand up and put on street shoes. She's contemplating doing just that, when there's a strange sort of tittering in the dressing room, and she looks up, seeing Jeffrey the security guard and a familiar face, a face she isn't sure she's ready to look it.

"Hi." Santana murmurs, ignoring the chattering around her and looking directly at Brittany. She's dressed all in black, flowing pants and a sleeveless blouse, like she just came from work. In her arms, she holds a bouquet of white calla lilies, and her hair falls in soft waves on her shoulder. She looks beautiful, so beautiful, and Brittany has to close her eyes, taking a moment to remember that this is the woman who hasn't called her in sixteen days, _not_ the woman who made her breakfast and smiled across the table. "You were amazing up there."

"Yeah, well, it's kinda my job, so…"

"Well you're really good at it." Her voice wavers a little bit, nervous, and Brittany almost takes pity on her and stands up to greet her. _Almost,_ until Sugar gets there first, hands crossed over her chest and one eyebrow raised as she looks Santana up and down.

"Let me guess, Santana?

"Yes, I—"

"That was a rhetorical question. I can smell Oscar de la Renta and Manolo Blahnik from a mile away. You show up with your expensive flowers and your compliments and you think that makes up for blowing off my homegirl? Get real, get lost."

"I'm…not sure exactly who you are."

"Your worst nightmare. You don't _want to know_ who my father is."

"Sugar." Brittany stands, gently stopping her friend. She knows that she means well, but…Santana's here, with flowers and her pretty face, and yeah, she's totally and completely pissed at her, but still, she can't help herself. "I'll take it from here." Sugar tilts her head in Brittany's direction, and Brittany shakes her head slowly. "Really, Shug, I promise. I got this."

"Alright." She concedes, skeptical. "But I'll make that call, if you need me to."

"I know." Brittany nods. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

Brittany waits, before she speaks to Santana. She watches as she shuffles her expensive shoes on the linoleum floor, eyes darting around to the other dancers who watch them. She's uncomfortable, Brittany knows as much, she knows that Santana is a very private person, and coming here, talking to her in front of people she doesn't know, it's a lot. But still, there was a phone. There was a phone that Santana didn't use, not for over two weeks. There was a phone that could have prevented her having to show up here with flowers, in front of all these people. So Brittany lets her squirm, even if it's just for a moment.

"Can we maybe…?" Santana's hand flails in the air, trying to convey talking, or leaving, or maybe something else entirely.

"Come outside." Brittany tries to keep her voice flat, devoid of emotion, but with Santana, who smells like Chanel No. 5, and who behaves around her in such stark contrast to the way she claims to around everyone else, she knows it's impossible.

Giving Sugar a small wave, Brittany, still in costume, still in her bare feet, walks down a long, narrow backstage hallway, checking, occasionally, to see that Santana is still following her. She is. She follows her the entire way, silent, even as they traipse up two flights of stairs, and Brittany opens the door to the rooftop, the city lights twinkling, and the wail of an ambulance siren cutting through the cool, late October night.

"Better?" Brittany asks, arching an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

"Yeah, much." Santana nods, eyeing Brittany cautiously.

"Go ahead. You wanted to talk?"

"I got you these." She gestures to the flowers in her arms, but Brittany makes no effort to uncross her arms and take them. "I'm sorry for not calling you, or returning your call, or trying to see you again."

"I'm sorry you didn't too. Kind of made me feel like total crap. I had a really good time with you, but whatever."

"No, Brittany, I don't want it to be _but whatever."_

"Well you coulda frickin' fooled me." Brittany swallows hard, determined not to let her hurt come out in tears. "You can't just show up at my work with flowers and think I'm going to be over it. Whatever, we had two-ish dates, but you made me _breakfast_. It's not like we were _dating_ or whatever, but you could have at least just called me back."

"I know. I _know."_ Santana shifts the flowers and wrings her hands nervously. "I know I screwed up. I was going to call you, I wanted to you out to this Italian restaurant that I love. I wanted to call you the same day I saw you last and see if I could take you to lunch the _next day._ But then I got stupid scared, because I've never felt like this about anyone, and why was I missing you when I saw you three hours before? I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to have feelings and deal with them. My whole life, I've been focused on being the very best at everything. I was the valedictorian of my high school, I graduated top of my class from Barnard, I started as a teller at the bank and I worked my ass off to get the job I have now. But this is just way out of my league. I can't be the best at this, because I don't know _how._ The whole thing was just too much for me, so I didn't call the first day, or the second day, or the third day. I listened to your message like thirty times, I think I wore the machine tape out, but I still didn't call. And then too much time passed, and I didn't know what to do, because I still couldn't get you out of my head. So here I am, hoping that you'll give me a second chance, and hoping maybe we could actually try this _dating_ thing."

"Dating isn't about being the _best."_ She watches Santana, still shuffling her feet, shifting the flowers into the bend of her elbow, so she can wring her hands. Brittany bites her tongue and wrinkles her nose, deciding just how honest she wants to be with her. "But if you want to talk about best, I had one of the best nights of my life with you, and then a pretty shitty two weeks to follow it."

"I really want to make it up to you, please, Britt. I don't do this, I have never begged for anything in my life, but if you want me to beg, I will."

"I don't want you to _beg,_ Santana. I just want you to be honest with me. Everyone's always so dishonest at the start of any kind of relationship, and I don't wanna get burned."

"I'm not gonna burn you." Santana sucks in a breath, and Brittany cocks her head, considering. "Please? Can I just take you somewhere. Somewhere we can talk and we're not freezing?"

"I'm not going back to your apartment, so you can sex me into forgiving you. I'm mad at you, but you're still so hot, and my vagina cannot be trusted."

"I— _what?"_

"We'll go back there, and then you'll sit on your couch, and I won't be able to think about anything but how hot you look naked with your legs spread, preferably with my head between them. Then the whole thing will be entirely unproductive, and we'll be right back where we started."

"Okay." Santana drags out her _y_ and pinches her eyes shut, very clearly trying not to picture what it is Brittany is talking about. "I wasn't going to take you back to my apartment. I just wanted to maybe sit down, have coffee, or dinner, if you're hungry, and talk."

"Santana, it's almost midnight."

"You took me to a diner in the middle of the night."

"So you want to go to the diner?"

"I mean, if you want to go to the diner, that's fine. But I made some phone calls, there's a French place downtown that's open until two."

"So you want to take me for French food in the middle of the night?"

"Look, if you don't want to go, we don't have to go." Santana huffs, and Brittany's eyes widen.

"Okay, _you_ don't really get to get pissed at _me_ right now for trying to figure out what it is you want to do, _okay?_ If you want to take me to dinner, start by asking. _Brittany, would you like to go out for snooty French food in the middle of the night?"_

"It's not snooty French food."

"Fine. _Brittany, would you like to go out for not-snooty French food in the middle of the night?"_

"Really?"

"Really. You're the one who wants to be _the best_ at this dating thing, so let me teach you. Lesson number one, if you want to take me on a date, ask me, Santana."

"This feels ridiculous." Santana purses her lips, and Brittany presses the palms of her hands to her forehead, looking up at the dark sky and shaking her head. Santana pauses, and then speaks again, seeming to question _herself_ as the words come out. "Brittany, will you have dinner with me? Please?"

"Yes, Santana, I'll have dinner with you."

"Oh, thank God." She exhales sharply. Brittany just can't help but smile at her. This woman, she's going to drive her absolutely insane, that's for sure, but after two weeks of pining, there's no way she won't give her a second chance, there's no way she won't hope that everything she's saying is sincere, that she won't run again.

While Brittany finally changes out of her costume, Santana waits outside the dressing room. Everyone else has gone, save for the lone security guard, who's there all night anyway, and Brittany knows, as Santana sits in one of the prop chairs on the other side of the door, still holding those flowers—really, really gorgeous ones, Brittany has to admit—that she's far more comfortable now than she was, that out of the eye of other people, she can actually breathe a sigh of relief. She's glad for that, really. As much as she was, or probably, still is, pissed off at Santana, something like this, this discomfort with people knowing who she _is,_ is never a thing that Brittany wants her to feel.

After she's dressed in her beat up old jeans and a t-shirt, she sits down to pull on bright yellow Converse, and emerges from the dressing room, shrugging her leather jacket on. Santana mumbles something about having checked her coat, and Brittany is quick to retrieve it for her, finally taking the flowers while Santana buttons herself up.

"Do you have your bike?" Santana asks, looking around when they exit the building. She's nervous, Brittany can tell, she's obviously not usually in this part of town at this time of night, and it's not exactly the best place to be—and she avoids telling Santana that her own neighborhood is _way_ worse.

"Nah, something's up with the motor, I gotta work on it tomorrow. I took the subway."

"Oh." Santana's face scrunches up in concern, but she knows it's not her place to say how much it worries her, Brittany riding those trains, especially late at night. "Let's get a cab, it's too far to walk."

They're silent on the cab ride downtown. The scent of lilies fills the backseat, a lucky break, Brittany thinks, so she can avoid smelling Santana and wanting to move closer to her. Most of the time, Santana picks at the non existent cuticles of her perfectly manicured nails. Brittany wonders what its like to be as Santana is, to worry about every single thing, to not call someone you're interested in, to constantly tangle yourself in knots. She hardly knows Santana, and yet, she can see all of those things. It goes so much further than having to be closeted at work, with most of her family, it's like she self-flagellates, like she wants to keep herself from having something _normal,_ because it's not the kind of normal she's supposed to want. It's for that reason that Brittany will give her a second chance, because Santana will always be harder on herself than anyone else will be on her, and Brittany thinks, maybe, maybe, she can be the one who isn't. Brittany thinks that she can be the one who helps her loosen up, even if it's just a little bit. Brittany Pierce doesn't shy away from a challenge, and making Santana Lopez relax, _that_ is definitely a challenge.

The restaurant really is way downtown, not far from Santana's job. Brittany can't help but wonder if Santana went there on her lunch to check it out. It seems like something she would do, thorough and meticulous, on the off chance that Brittany agreed come with her. It sort of makes her smile internally as Santana holds the door open for her. When she gives her name to the maitre'd, Brittany's suspicions are confirmed, and she follows Santana to the back of the restaurant, her heart fluttering a little, in spite of herself. She slides into the booth and slips off her jacket, watching as Santana watches her.

"Been here before?" Brittany quirks an eyebrow as she's handed a menu. Santana ducks her head when the maitre'd steps away, and she takes a deep breath.

"I have business lunches here sometimes. It's not where I would have chosen to take you on…on a date, but my options were limited, they were the only place I called that was open this late. Next time, I'll take you the place that I really wanted to take you…if there's a next time."

"Lesson number two, you don't have to take me to nice restaurants to make me like you, Santana. I already do."

"That's something I know how to do though."

"Okay. I'm just saying you don't _have_ to." She bites her lip, and for the sake of total honesty—though she's sure Santana already knows this—she continues. "I'd love to be able to take you on nice dates, but I don't have the money to. Robbie's place is about as nice as it gets for me."

"Robbie's place is perfect." Santana laughs, the relief, Brittany thinks, that they're talking about future dates, washing over her. "So this isn't it then?"

"I guess not." Under the table, Brittany creeps her hand toward Santana, settling it on her thigh and smiling when Santana takes it and squeezes it, not letting go.

"Brittany." Her face darkens, serious, like all of the storms inside that pretty little head of hers have manifested there. "There's a lot that I can't give you."

"Santana."

"No, please. Let me say it. I need to say it, I need you to understand."

"I think I understand it without you saying."

"I think you do too, but please? For the sake of second chances?"

"Okay." Glad she can squeeze Santana's hand, Brittany nods her consent.

"I wish—I wish that I could give you everything. I hardly know you, but I _do._ I feel like I know you so much already, and I know that the last two weeks aside, I really want this to be something real."

"I want that too."

"I know that you have your roommates, and your work friends and your parents who all _know."_ Santana stops to pinch her eyes shut, just for a moment, her face darker still. When she opens them again, she can't look at Brittany's face, so she looks anywhere else, studying the gilded decor behind her head. "It's not like that for me, Brittany. I have three people in my life who do, that's it. I've never done this before, partially because there's no one I've ever met who's made me want to…deal with both sides of myself. I can't give you Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Queens. I can't give you cocktail parties at my job. I can't do that, because I can't be _honest_ with my family or my boss or the people who work for me about who I am. I've spent my whole life working toward this and…honesty could take it all away. I just need you to know that. That's never going to change, and I'm sorry."

"Hey, look at me." Brittany's tone softens, any residual anger that she felt toward Santana melting away at her genuine confession. "I understand that. I would never expect you to out yourself, I know how people are, I know that I'm really lucky, doing what I do, having the crazy hippy family I do. I only asked you to be honest with _me_. That's it."

"That and calling you back."

"Also that, yeah. I'd also really prefer you don't fall off the face of the earth for weeks at time." A smile curls at the corners of Brittany's mouth, and Santana's eyes sparkle. "So should we start over? Hi, I'm Brittany Pierce, dancer extraordinaire, owner of a motorcycle."

"It's nice to meet you, Brittany Pierce." Santana plays along, extending her right hand, the one that isn't still holding Brittany's where no one can see it, to shake. "I'm Santana Lopez, bank manager and kitchen singer."

"Well, Santana Lopez, bank manager and kitchen singer, what do you say we order some dinner? I don't speak French, other that _pas de deux_ and _pirouette,_ so lesson number three, if you're going to take me for snooty French food, you have make sure I don't eat anything weird."

"That, I definitely think I can manage."


	5. Something's Telling Me It Might Be You

It's difficult for her, but Santana is trying. Letting someone into her life, into her day to day, into her home, more than just for one single night, it's strange, and it's vaguely unsettling, but she's doing it, it seems. She's letting her surprisingly strong feelings for Brittany Pierce outweigh the rest of it, so so far, it's been good, no, it's been absolutely amazing.

Nearly a month passed since the night Santana showed up at Brittany's show. October has rolled into November, and with that, the typical holiday busyness has set in. Brittany dances to sold out shows every night, Santana knows, and Santana, well, she's caught up in year end. She's caught up in making sure not a single digit is off in her reports. She's caught up in making sure that her current state of personal bliss doesn't damage the professional rapport that she's spent the better part of the past eight years building, and that responsibility, it winds her even more tightly than she typically is, it winds her so tightly that she's fairly certain she might snap.

She works a lot. She works late nights, climbing out of a cab close to midnight more often than not, her hair pulled loose in the hours since she sent her staff home, her ankles throbbing and popping from her heels on tiled floors, a migraine throbbing behind her eyes. But she sees Brittany whenever she can. She spends Tuesday evenings with her. She takes her on late night dates on Fridays—easier for her, maybe, she thinks—and she lets Brittany take her to breakfasts on Saturdays. They end up back at Santana's afterward, always. Santana lets her tight composure unwind beneath Brittany. She lets Brittany kiss her lips, her eyelids, the insides of her wrists. It's too intimate, but she doesn't run. She begs Brittany to stay in bed when she leaves for work, not to get up early after their late nights just because she has to, to stay in bed and to help herself to whatever she wants for breakfast before she goes. Santana kisses Brittany's forehead and her eyelids too. It's too intimate, but she craves more.

It's a Tuesday morning. Santana is on a warpath. Even the lingering dull soreness between her legs from her Sunday, and the purpling bruise she remembers on her inner thigh when she steps into the bathroom to keep from firing and/or murdering Jacob Ben Israel for a substantial oversight doesn't quell the bubbling anxiety inside of her. She has to fix everyone else's mistakes, and she barely has time to get any of her own work done. She hates Tuesdays. It's like everyone uses up all of their brain on Monday, and they're left utterly incompetent for the rest of the week. She hates Tuesdays, and this particular one, it's more nerve wracking than normal. It's more nerve wracking than usual, because she made a promise to Brittany, and all of her work stress pales in comparison to the anxiety she feels about _that._

" _Hey, babe?" Brittany asks, her never-still fingers trailing over Santana's bare back. They're lying in bed on Sunday morning. Santana has barely regained her ability to breathe normally, and has collapsed on her stomach, hair in her face, Brittany still half draped over her._

" _Mmhmm?"_

" _You can like, totally say no to this, so don't feel like you can't okay?" Her voice is soft, and her eyes blink rapidly, nervously._

" _You gotta give me like…ten minutes to recover." Santana's eyes snap open to meet crystal blue, and Brittany smiles, shaking her head and kissing her lips. She's adventurous in bed, for certain, but now, she's not talking about trying something new, she's not talking about completely blowing Santana's mind when she feels things she never even_ dreamed _of._

" _No, no, it's not about that. I mean, I could definitely come up with some ideas, if you wanted me too, you know, make it better, if it's not—"_

" _You're perfect." She says out loud, before her mind can stop her, and she sucks her lips into her mouth, blushing. "I mean…it's so good. Great. Amazing."_

" _You're cute." Brittany's lashes flutter, and Santana's heart does in response. Her fingers still on Santana's back, falling to rest just above the swell of her ass, and she takes a deep breath. It's rare that Brittany gets nervous, and noticing that she is, Santana props her head up on her hand, giving her undivided attention. "I was actually going to ask you…I mean, obviously my friends know about you, and they're kind of just…They want to meet you, is all."_

" _Oh." Her heart lurches at the words. It doesn't surprise her, not really, Mercedes, her own closest confidante, has begun pestering her about the same thing, her cousin, the only one in her family that she's out to, wants to know about the girl his friend told him she'd left the bar with on their blind date. But still. Brittany's friends knowing who she is in_ theory _is one thing, actually meeting her, seeing her face, it freaks her out. It freaks her out a lot._

" _You can really say no, I promise, I won't be mad at all. They just asked me to ask you, and they're going out on Tuesday. Obviously, if you don't want to go, I want to have date-Tuesday with you, it's totally better than watered down beer at this lame-o bar…"_

" _You're really selling this, aren't you?" Santana can't help but laugh, watching Brittany's eyes crinkle nervously. "Brittany. Do you want me to meet them?"_

" _I mean…" It's clear Brittany is choosing her words carefully. "I definitely want you to meet them, yeah. I mean, I'm super close with them, and I think you'd like them, especially Mike and Artie. But, I also really don't want you to do something that will make you uncomfortable, so mostly, I want either thing, yes or no."_

" _Thank you." Santana smiles. "Even though your answer was incredibly non-committal, I appreciate the sentiment."_

" _You don't have to tell me now. And you can also totally tell me and still change your mind. I don't want you to feel pressured or anything."_

" _Britt." Santana presses her thumb into Brittany's cheek, just feeling completely enamored with this woman. "If your friends want to meet me, and you want me to meet them, then I want to meet them."_

" _Really?" Brittany squeaks a little, catching Santana's lips in a kiss._

" _Really, definitely really." Santana feels a tight laugh in her throat, all her anxiety completely worth it for the look on Brittany's face._

At six-ten, Santana is still dealing with Ben Israel's mess. The minutes on her watch tick away faster than she can handle, and her chest hurts, thinking that she needs to be in the East Village in twenty minutes. She'd planned to leave today at five o'clock, to go home and change into something decidedly not _this,_ before meeting Brittany's friends. She didn't want to look like she'd come from the bank, she wanted to look a little more like she belonged in this _lame-o_ bar, as Brittany had called it. She'd wanted to do something with her hair, to pull it out of the skull numbing bun she wears it in most of the time at work, and really, though she struggles to admit it even to herself, she'd wanted to make sure she looked pretty enough to make Brittany's friends believe she was good enough for her.

It's six-thirty-seven when she's finally ready to leave, seven minutes after she's supposed to be _at_ the bar. She'd been so occupied with cleaning up the mess that Santana hadn't noticed that it had begun to rain—and not a light drizzle, a full on downpour. She grabs an umbrella from the rack by the door, and she pulls her jacket tight around herself, bracing for the weather as she steps out into the evening darkness. It takes nearly ten minutes for her to get a cab, and Santana curses everything as her shoes get soaked, her stockings get soaked, and even more time ticks by. She's late, she's meeting Brittany's friends and she's late, something she _never_ is, and by the time a cab finalły pulls over, and she gives the address, Santana is on the verge of a full fledged anxiety attack.

Pulling a compact out of her purse, Santana spends the ride attempting to look at least _slightly_ less disheveled, wiping mascara from beneath her eyes, smoothing her frizzing hair, reapplying her lipstick, and attempting to pat her stockings dry. It's after seven when the cab finally pulls up in front of the bar, and Santana sucks in a deep breath, swallowing hard in a frantic effort to quell her anxiety both about being late, and about meeting the people Brittany cares so deeply about. She dashes to the entryway, hoping to avoid further water related disaster, and as soon as she steps in the door, _867-5309_ playing over the sound system, her eyes scan the room for a flash of blonde hair.

"Santana!" Brittany's voice rises over everything else, and she stands from her seat, waving her arms and moving toward Santana, lime green leggings making her glow, almost, under the bar's neon lights. When she reaches the door, Santana breathes in her scent, and she feels a strange sense of comfort wash over her as Brittany surreptitiously squeezes her left hip. "I got worried you changed your mind, I haven't been home all day to answer the phone…"

"I'm _so_ sorry I'm late, Britt, and that I'm dressed like this. I had this whole plan to go home and not look like the kind of person everyone in this bar probably hates and then—"

"Hey, it's totally cool, babe." Brittany leans in, hugging her, so her lips are close to Santana's ear and she can murmur into it. "You look beautiful, and you _know_ I'm all about these skirts and sexy blazers of yours. Come sit so I can get you a drink, you look like you've had a day."

"More like a day and a half." She sighs a little, but can't help but smile at the way Brittany's brow quirks in concern. "But I'm here now, and I'm really happy to see you."

Grinning, Brittany leads Santana over to the table where her friends sit. She recognizes Artie and Mike from the club, of course, and it's not difficult for Santana to figure out which of the girls is Tina and which is Lauren. It's funny—or maybe funny isn't the word at all—how Santana can sit in a boardroom full of suit clad men in power and hold her own, but now, meeting Brittany's group of friends, her knees threaten to buckle, and she feels a sheen on panic induced sweat forming along the underwire of her bra. .

"Guys." Brittany chips. "This is Santana. Santana, Tina, Artie, Mike and Lauren, my roommates."

"Better late than never." Lauren sucks her teeth, looking her up and down, and Santana feels a pull of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. "Figured you blew us off for something better, a cocktail party in Connecticut looks about right."

"Bag your face, Lauren, she came right from work."

"Clearly."

"Hey, mama, nice to meet you." Artie cuts off anything else Lauren plans to say and reaches across the table, shuffling a little in his wheelchair. "We've heard so much about you."

"I've heard a lot about you too." She smiles, shaking hands with Artie, then Mike, and sinking into the chair that Brittany so chivalrously pulls out for her.

"Santana, what are you drinking?" Mike asks, hushing Brittany's protests that she'll go to the bar for her. Brittany takes a seat beside Santana instead, and under the table, she searches for her hand, squeezing it, calming her.

"Beer's good." Santana notes the other pint glasses. "Here, let me give you some—"

"Nope, absolutely not. I'm just gonna grab you a glass and another pitcher, we can fight it out over who gets the next one."

Santana takes comfort in Mike's warmth, and she appreciates the trait she'd seen in his brother as well. Once Mike returns, setting a glass down in front of Santana, and refilling everyone else's—everyone but Brittany who, as usual, drinks water—idle chatter ensues. Remaining mostly quiet, except when Brittany's friends took turns with their rapid fire questions—where's she from? what are her parents like? where did she go to school? why become a banker?—Santana listens. Strange as she feels, out of her element in this little gay bar on Delancey Street, she wants to know these people, even Lauren, who spends twenty minutes in the payphone booth, talking to some guy. She wants to know them, because they mean something to Brittany, and, well, Brittany really means something to _her._

"So listen to _this one,_ Santana." Mike starts laughing before he begins the story, and Tina smacks his arm.

"This story _sucks,_ don't go telling everyone."

"Oh, c'mon, T." Brittany chides, blue eyes dancing. "I'm just going to tell her later anyway."

"You guys _suck."_

"Only four and half of us." Artie corrects, and Brittany lets her tongue fall out of her mouth.

"Ugh, gag me with a spoon. This is why I never bring anyone to meet you, you're all gross."

"And yet we get the _pleasure_ of meeting Richie Bitch." Lauren snarks, making Brittany kick get under the table. "Have I told you how _lovely_ it is to meet you, Santana?"

"Telling a story here, Zises." Mike snaps his fingers to draw attention back to him. '

"Anyway, this guy comes in before, dressed like a fricking ventriloquist dummy."

"He was _not_ dressed like a ventriloquist dummy. His bow tie was cute."

"His bow tie made him look like a serial killer, Tina." Brittany giggles. "I also thought maybe it was holding his head on. That and the gel in his hair. Bet he's the one keeping DEP in business."

"So he gets up there and starts bogarting the stage." Artie continues for Mike, and Santana can't help but smile at the loving look they share. "And he tells everybody he's dedicating this song to this guy Jeremiah, and no fake, he starts singing _Every Breath You Take."_

"What?" Santana snorts her beer, than flushes with embarrassment when she dribbles a little down her chin. "Who would dedicate that stalker song to someone?"

"A creep-o. But you haven't heard the best part." Artie claps his hands together. "The guy he was singing to totally bugs out, and gets up and slaps him across the face and _then_ he starts to _cry._ So then he comes over and proceeds to chat up Mike for an hour—"

" _Which_ got all of us three free pitchers of beer."

"Babe, I know you ain't going nowhere, I'm not jealous." Artie laughs at Mike's effort to justify the guy's flirting. "But then _Tina_ decides he's clearly into Asians, so _she_ starts hitting on him _."_

"I was not _hitting on him."_ Tina downs the rest of her beer and the glass hits the table with a thud. "I just felt bad for him, he put himself out there. I don't hit on gay guys…anymore."

"Tina and I dated in high school." Mike chuckles. "Then she dated Artie, then Artie and I started dating each other."

"Ouch." Santana shakes her hand out in front of her like she's been burned. "Rough break."

"That's like so 1973, I'm totally over it. Tonight I just felt bad for the guy."

"I might have too, if he didn't get up there with a head so big I thought it might explode all over us. Really, after you made me watch _Dawn Of the Dead_ last month _,_ I've got my fill of seeing human brains for like, ever." Brittany wrinkles her nose, and Santana smiles at her softly, her every facial expression making her stomach fill with butterflies. "Also the story is way funnier when you picture Tina hitting on him. Tina, really, practice your flirting."

"I wasn't _flirting."_

"Sure you weren't, I see your little hair flip chest touch thing. Creepy. Don't come here next week and sing that song for _him."_

Santana and the others laugh with Brittany, and eventually, Tina can't help but join in too. Content with their earlier inquisition of her, they let Santana be her usually reserved self, not comfortable revealing too much to people she's just met. She listens to them talk though, learning each one of them. Artie tells her how he'd been in Vietnam for two weeks, only months before the war was over, and he'd taken a bullet to the spine. He says that he considers himself sort of lucky though, that he could have seen _way_ worse over there, and that him ending up paralyzed made Mike finally wise up and take him out for dinner—also making sure Santana knows that he still works _down there,_ in case she was thinking otherwise. Tina talks a _lot—_ much of which includes complaints, though Brittany tells her to stop being so damn depressing—but Santana thinks she really likes her. Lauren is brash, and frankly, a little terrifying, like she could whip Santana around like a rag doll, if she wanted to. But they're funny, all of them in their own way, and Santana's quakey knees have mostly subsided. She loves seeing Brittany in her own element, and even more than that, she loves the way Brittany holds her hand on her knee beneath the table, her thumb stroking the inside of her thigh, soothing her, relaxing her.

"You wanna dance?" Brittany asks. They've been in the bar a few hours, Santana's starting to feel tipsy from the beer she's had, and Artie and Mike have already found their own place on the dance floor, touchy and laughing as Mike spins Artie's chair around.

"Yeah, definitely." Santana nods, letting Brittany's hand fell to rest on her lower back as she leads her from the table to the dance floor. _Billie Jean_ blares overhead, and Santana swallows hard as Brittany moonwalks a little.

They dance. Brittany, as she always does, has the place staring at her, and even Santana steps back a little to watch. She's mesmerizing, truly, and though she's seen her now on stage, she can't get over the way she dances when she doesn't have a choreographer to listen to. There's something about how _physical_ Brittany is, how truly unabashed, that makes Santana pinch her thighs together, the heat forming between them at the sight before her almost embarrassing. But Brittany is sexy, _too_ sexy, almost, and the way she moves out there only serves to remind Santana how she moves when they're alone, how flexible she is not just when dropping into a spontaneous split on the floor of a bar, and her eyes, those eyes that never leave Santana's face, _they_ remind her how much much than just physical this thing between them is.

When the music slows down and Brittany pulls Santana in to dance with her to _It Might Be You,_ Santana's neck flushes. It's another new thing for her, one of far too many to count, slow dancing like this, and when Brittany pulls her a little closer, she checks with Santana that it's alright. She nods slowly, her heart pounding again her rib cage—and not because they're in public, she's fine with this, in a bar full of people like them. Her heart pounds, because the things she feels for Brittany, they're new too, and perhaps more nerve wracking than anything, those feelings don't scare her in the way that made her run anymore, they don't scare her in the way she thinks maybe they should.

"You okay?" Brittany asks, her eyes trained on Santana's face, her fingers trailing ever so lightly down her back. _If I found the place, would I recognize the face? Something's telling me it might be you._

"Yeah, totally. I like this song, even though I hated the movie."

"You and I, Santana Lopez, are never going to agree on movies, I think you and most of _America_ don't agree on movies."

"You know the kind I like." She shrugs a little, Brittany's breath tickling her neck. "I know you think I'm boring, wanting to watch foreign films and documentaries."

"I actually don't think anything about you is boring." Brittany licks her lips a little, sincere. "Plus you totally promised me if you could find _Divorce Italian Style_ on Betamax that we'd watch it and I'd think it was funny."

"That's true, I _did_ promise you that, and once work gets a little less crazy, I will."

"Thank you for coming tonight." Brittany shifts gears, an adoring little smile forming on her face. "I know you said you had a stressful day, and works been _so_ crazy for you. I'd have totally understood if you had to cancel."

"I wouldn't have done that. It's your only night off, and I wanted to spend it with you. Plus, I like your friends."

"Except Lauren."

"I don't…it's not that…Lauren is a _beautiful_ person."

"You have a lame poker face. Also, Lauren is a bitch. Even if I'd believed you before, I'd have stopped believing you the moment you called her a beautiful person."

"Well she's your _friend._ I want to get along with them."

"Lauren put me in a chokehold once because I ate her last candy bar, you can still think she's a bitch even though we're friends." Brittany sucks her teeth. "But I'm glad you mostly like them. They all really like you too. Mike and Artie especially, I totally checked when you went up the bathroom."

"You're too much." Santana shakes her head a little, though her eyes widen and her heart rate speeds up. "But really? I'm not really sure how to do this kind of stuff at all, and making a good impression on your friends is _way_ different than making an impression on a potential client."

"Dating rule twenty-nine, just be _you._ I happen to think you're totally awesome."

"Yeah?"

"Of course yeah. I wouldn't be hanging out with you if I didn't think so. Save the handshakes and the perfectly ironed suits for your business meetings…actually, share the suits with me." Brittany plays with the collar of her starched turquoise shirt, her blazer left folded over the back of her chair. " _This_ might be my favorite yet."

"Britt—" Santana starts, her voice soft and sentimental, and also slightly aroused, the way Brittany looks at her like she might devour her keying Santana up a little. It's a tap on her shoulder from Mike that snaps her out of it, and she whips her head around. The song is over, and they've shifted from their slow dance when the Go-Go's began playing, but still, the intrusion startles her.

"Hey Britt, mind if I steal your girl for a dance?"

"It's okay with me, if you want, Santana."

"Uh, yeah, sure." Santana nods, though it's been a long time since she's danced with a man—her senior prom, to be exact—and she's nervous enough about being with Brittany's friends.

"I don't bite, promise." Mike invites her into his space, and with a wink, Brittany is off spinning Artie in his wheelchair.

"You're here to tell me not to hurt her, aren't you?"

"No, she's a big girl, she knows what she's getting into. I'm here to tell you that you're already used up your wine and ice cream allowance with _us._ She really likes you, and we like you too, but we're a lot less forgiving than she is."

"Okay." Santana has trouble meeting his eyes, her palms sweaty and her neck hot. "I appreciate that she has good friends. Brittany knows…she knows who I am and what I can offer her, and I care about her a lot, so I really will do everything I can not to hurt her…or piss any of you off."

"I think you're nice. Quiet and definitely more conservative than we're used to." He cocks his head over to where Artie has opened his shirt and begun throwing dollar bills at Brittany. "But maybe that's a good thing."

"Thank you, Mike. And thanks for not…sending Lauren instead of you."

"Oh, you only get Lauren if you hurt her." Mike winks, and Santana blanches. "I'm kidding, it's Artie you want to watch out for, he'll run you over with his wheelchair."

"Michael Robert Chang Junior." Brittany turns around with a hand on her hip. "Come dance with your man and leave Santana alone."

 _He's fine._ Santana mouths to her, but Brittany pushes Artie so Mike has to catch him, and she comes back to Santana's side.

"I'm kind of ready to go."

"Yeah, me too." Santana pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Are you…? I mean, it's Tuesday, so…"

"You're very cute when you're trying to ask me to come home with you." Brittany leans into murmur in Santana's ear. "And I love how you're such a creature of habit. I'm totally coming home with you, but are you down for grabbing some pizza or something on the way? 'Cuz I'm starved."

"Anything you want, Britt." Santana means to sound breezy when she says it, but the words catch a little in her throat.

"Sweet! C'mon, let's jet."

"Alright, but let me say goodbye to everyone. I want to give Mike some money—"

"Santana." Brittany grabs her hand to squeeze it, then lets it go gently. "I know you mean well, but don't insult him. He wanted to buy you drinks, just let him, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Santana lets out a breath, a little uncomfortable with that.

"It's cool, I promise." She nods, then whispers to Santana. "He's totally my favorite too."

Lauren has disappeared when Brittany rounds everyone up—much to Santana's relief, really, she's sure Lauren isn't feeling her at all, especially after she called her a Joanie—she's gone to hook up with some guy, Tina tells Santana, she usually ditches them midway through any night out for that. Santana is taken aback by the hugs she gets, but she takes a breath and reciprocates. This is all really overwhelming to her, but the way Brittany smiles, her cheeks tight and her eyes dancing, well, that makes it all completely worth it.

It's still pouring when they leave the bar, and Santana is glad Brittany doesn't have her bike. Much as she loves being on the back of it, arms wrapped around Brittany's waist and her chin pressed into her shoulder, her feet ache, and she's already cold and ready to be back inside. She manages to hail a cab for them, and Brittany's hand settles on her knee again, that private little way she has of being close by, even when Santana isn't comfortable holding her hand. Pizza turns into dinner at Santana's favorite restaurant, the place she's now brought Brittany twice, and Santana's cheeks redden at the sounds Brittany makes as she devours her spaghetti and meatballs, and every single time she makes jokes about reenacting _Lady and the Tramp_ — _obviously_ Santana is Lady and she's the Tramp, she giggles, fingering Santana's gold bracelet under the table.

When they finally arrive back at Santana's close to midnight, she groans as she kicks off her heels, another solid seventeen hours in them really doing her in. Brittany notices her face, and the stress that comes back to it as she realizes that tomorrow is only Wednesday, and she's still got three full days of work before she can relax. Before she can register what Brittany is doing, she's behind her, untying the belt of Santana's coat, slipping it from her shoulders, before unbuttoning the blazer beneath it as well, tossing them both on the bench in the entryway atop Brittany's leather jacket, and pulling loose Santana's tight bun. Though Santana's immediate urge is to hang up her things and put her shoes in the closet, Brittany's hands running through her hair and fingers massaging her scalp stops her in her tracks. The way this woman can relax her, it's something else entirely, and she can't help but close her eyes, and she can't stop the small moan that escapes her throat as thumbs dig into her neck.

"Feels good." Santana murmurs, putty in Brittany's hands when she presses a soft kiss to tight strung muscles. "Such a shit month."

"Let me take care of you." Brittany hums into rain damp skin. "You feel like you need it."

"Let me kiss you first." She doesn't protest Brittany's request, but it's been since Sunday afternoon that she's felt Brittany's mouth on hers, and she craves that feeling more than she craves anything else, she's been craving it all night, waiting until they were here, behind closed doors, just them and whatever this is that's growing between them.

Turning in Brittany's arms, Santana brings her hands to Brittany's face. She likes holding her like that, she's decided. She likes when their entire attention is on each other, she likes when Brittany's eyes search her whole face, she likes the entirety of this new, wholly _terrifying_ experience. When Brittany's eyes flick to her lips, Santana pulls her in for a kiss, and Brittany wraps her arms around Santana's neck, bringing her closer still. Everything fades for Santana then, the anxieties that plague her every day, the ache in her feet, the strain of her sides against her bra. It all fades, and Santana is just left surrounded by Brittany's warm source smell, her tongue pushing into her mouth, her always dancing fingers. It leaves her breathless when she finally pulls away, and Brittany is still there, fully encumbering her vision, dreamy little smile on her face.

Brittany doesn't say anything. She just takes Santana by the hand and she brings her to sit down on the couch. Santana's brow quirks, she's well aware of Brittany's fixation with her on this couch, but she definitely doesn't protest, not when Brittany's expression is some strange mix of softness and desire, not when she kisses Santana's chin, and undoes the top three buttons of her shirt. She remains wordless for a long time, climbing so her knees are on either side of Santana's thighs, resuming her massage of her scalp, her neck, her shoulders. As Santana gets more and more relaxed, her eyes fluttering and her lips parting in bliss, Brittany slowly removes her clothes, wanting to take her time with her, wanting to worship the dark goddess who melts into the white cushions.

As Brittany bares her skin inch by inch, Santana can't tear her eyes from her. When Santana moves to reciprocate, Brittany stills her hands and kisses a newly bared shoulder, tender, so tender with her _everything._ Once her bra is unhooked and slipped off of her chest, Santana holds back her gasp as she realizes what Brittany is doing, lips pressed to the skin beneath her arms, where the underwire had pressed and marked. She's not sure if she's aroused or what, but something about what Brittany does to her, it makes insides twist like they never have before.

"You alright, Santana?" Brittany's eyes look up, breath still hitting the side of Santana's right breast. She feels the speed of her heart, Santana knows it, and her lashes flutter. "I want you to relax, but if this isn't relaxing you…"

"No, no, I'm okay." She resists the urge to beg Brittany not to stop, to _never_ stop, to tell her how even her featherlight kisses feel like heaven on her skin, to promise her that she never feels more relaxed then when Brittany is touching her. "Better than okay."

"Good." Brittany grins from ear to ear, her thumb tracing Santana's collar bone. "Then lie back, close your eyes."

Santana fights the instruction for several moments, at least the second part. Giving up full control like that, denying herself sight, that's difficult for her. Brittany doesn't challenge her, she gets it, Santana thinks, she seems to _always_ get it, even when Santana doesn't make her thoughts clear, and she just resumes what she's doing, kissing every inch of Santana's skin, inching lower as Santana involuntarily parts her legs. They both know what she's going for, Brittany husked her desire for it into Santana's ear one morning as she left, her last night's panties tossed casually into Santana's hamper, and Santana's skin tingles in anticipation. It's nothing new with them, not really. She's had Brittany between her legs dozens of times, she's had Brittany on her face, hands gripping the headboard and thighs muffling all sound for Santana, she's had Brittany in ways she never imagined she'd be with someone, so much more intimate than she would ever have allowed with anyone before, but it's just…Brittany's words that morning, and the thought of Brittany going down on her while she sits back on the couch, it feels dirtier somehow than in the bedroom. It feels like maybe it'll be so intense that Santana will lose her ability to ever breathe again.

But Brittany takes her time. She's not teasing Santana, she knows this isn't the time for that—how well she's figured out Santana's body already, it sort of amazes them both—she's just cherishing her, relaxing her, making her muscles jump, then settle, with every move. She continues to kiss, finding where Santana's underwire pinched beneath her breasts, more indents in her skin, when Santana arches her back, and finally, making Santana succumb and close her eyes when she places quick hard kisses on her nipples, and she nearly chokes with want. Seeing only blackness, Santana feels everything so much more. She feels Brittany sink to the floor, hears the pull of her zipper, the rustle of fabric as Brittany removes the skirt entirely, and feels exactly where Brittany's lips go, over where the waistband sat just moments earlier. It's like she's kissing it all away, every constriction of her day, bringing out all of Santana's private self, the woman who falls back into the pillows, the woman who keens and whimpers, unencumbered by who she's expected to be.

Once she's completely naked, Santana can feel Brittany's eyes on her, taking her in, and she can only imagine the sight she is. Beads of sweat form on her forehead, they trickle down her neck, and she knows, her dark hair pulled loose is curly and wild from the rain and the dancing, and from raking her hands through it to keep from grabbing hold of Brittany. She knows her chest heaves and her legs are spread completely, baring her everything, showcasing the strong physical effect that Brittany has on her. But Santana doesn't feel embarrassed, though she ordinarily would. She doesn't feel ashamed of her want, she doesn't feel ashamed of letting someone else take the reigns so she can melt into white leather. No, she feels beautiful. She feels beautiful, because before she closed her own, she could see the lust in Brittany's eyes, and she can hear Brittany's words over and over in her head, _I happen to think you're totally awesome._

Brittany's lips press just below her navel, finding the scar that Santana had told her the cause of one night, when her fingers stroked it gently. She'd fallen off the top of the slide in the schoolyard in third grade and her mom came to pick her up, doubled over and bleeding in the nurse's office. Her mother yelled at her all the way to the hospital for fooling around. She'd gotten nine stitches there, and that was when her parents forbade her from playing with the boys. Brittany kisses it over and over again, like she wants to make it better, like she wants to make every twist in her stomach when she thinks about her parents go away. She kisses it, and then she finds Santana's hands, squeezing them both in reassurance and a silent request for permission to continue like this. Santana squeezes back, her eyes still closed. It defies so much about her, letting go like this, trusting Brittany as implicitly as she does, but it feels right, more right than anything has in a long time, and when she feels Brittany's lips on her sex, she arches up, seeking more of it, seeking this and only this forever.

"You're beautiful." Brittany whispers, like a prayer, almost, and Santana isn't sure why she gasps at that, why it sends a jolt of something so unfamiliar straight to every cell of her being.

As Brittany's hands squeeze her ass, lifting her up to bring her closer to her face, her tongue works between her legs, Santana's neck sinks further into the pillows. She forgets how to think, she forgets how to breathe almost, her body's inner desire to just _feel_ replacing all else. She aches, and she moans as Brittany's tongue probes at her entrance, she gasps as Brittany brings her hands into blonde hair, encouraging her to weave them in, encouraging her to tell her what makes her feel good. When she comes, she convulses, her body wracked with tremors and her throat gasping for breath. She shakes for what feels like hours, and Brittany, she licks her gently, Brittany, she traces fingers down the sides of her thighs. When Santana can finally lift her head from the couch cushions, still trembling, she finally opens her eyes again. They open slowly, lazily, and Brittany, kneeling on the floor before her, lifts her head up too. Blue eyes dance, and she swipes her tongue over her bottom lip, chin and cheeks wet from her efforts, smile forming on her mouth. The sight makes Santana's stomach coil tight, the sight makes Santana's heart race with a startling revelation, one that blindsides her completely and makes starfish hands open and close, a futile effort to find a grasp on the thoughts—or singular thought, rather— that rushes through her head.

"What?" Brittany asks, eyes darting in alarm.

"Nothing." Santana shakes her head, voice cracking and wavering, breath labored as tiny tremors still hit her and this strong feeling threatens to overwhelm her entirely. "Just…thank you."

"You're thanking me after sex?" She furrows her brow, teasing a little, but also slightly confused, and Santana finds Brittany's hands, mustering her strength to pull her to straddle her lap, eager to kiss her lips again.

"I'm thanking you for relaxing me." Santana's hands squeeze Brittany's and let them go, sliding them up under her shirt and cupping her breasts, breath hitching when she finds her without a bra. She kisses her slow, deep, and then finds the spot on Brittany's neck that drives her wild. Heart still hammering at her realization, a weighty one, for sure, she channels it into making Brittany feel good. Sucking below her ear, holding the weight of her breasts in her hands, thumbing her nipples, making her hiss, when she nips her skin. "And this is far from over, Britt. Give me just a second to feel my body again, and we're taking this to the bedroom."


	6. What It Is, Though Old, So New

She's fallen hard for Santana, Brittany has decided. Really, she'd tried to stop herself from doing that, especially after the initial hiccups, but she can't help herself. There's just something about her, something that makes her knees weak and her chest hurt. She's beautiful, of course, more beautiful than anything Brittany has ever met, by a long shot, but it's more than that, it's _so_ much more than that. It's something deeper than that, something that hides behind those dark, serious eyes, something that Brittany finds herself aching to uncover like she never has before. Santana is beautiful, and something about her beauty, it haunts Brittany. Something about the way Brittany is able to peel layers back—something she thinks no one else can't do, Santana, she's wrapped so tight, after all—it makes her feel like even with all Santana's worries about _everything,_ her furrowed brows and anxious stomach, that what's building between them is something that's meant to last, it feels like something so strong that even Santana can't fight it.

Thanksgiving approaches. Her parents, they bought her a ticket back home. She has a show Wednesday night and one Friday night, so really, she'll end up in Arizona for just over twenty-four hours, but her mom is looking forward to it, and she hasn't seen her family since Easter, so Brittany is pretty excited too. Tuesday, she packs, if throwing a dress for dinner and one extra outfit in a backpack can really even count as packing, whatever else she needs, she'll steal from her sister when she gets there. She cleans up around the apartment, since everyone else, save for Mike, who's with Artie, has already gone back home. She takes her bike out for a little while. She waits for Santana to get off of work. She can't really tell, since Santana's so guarded, but she thinks maybe she's a little bummed that Brittany's leaving. Her parents, of course, expect her there for dinner at their house, but still, had Brittany been in town, they probably could have spent the night together, with Brittany off.

But it can't be changed now. These plans Brittany made with her mom came long before Santana, but even if they _hadn't,_ Brittany knows it'll be awhile before she can get back home again, and she needs to go. So Brittany waits for Santana to get off work. They're going to have their own turkey dinner at the diner Brittany had taken her to the night they met. It had been Brittany's idea, and the way it made Santana smile, it caused her heart to race. It's something special to Brittany, those smiles she gets. She knows that all day, Santana has deep lines in her forehead, that her hair is pulled back so tightly she gets headaches, that her shirts are buttoned up and her heels are too high and they pinch her feet, but when Brittany gets her, she can help loosen all of that up. She can see her smile, her messy hair on the pillow, wearing nothing but Brittany's smiley face t-shirt, she can see her take actual breaths, and not worry that she suddenly becomes less than large than life.

So they go to dinner. Santana had worn a pantsuit to work, and it takes a lot for Brittany not to jump her in the middle of the diner. She settles for a hand on her knee under the table, pinky creeping just a little too high, until Santana squeezes her hand to make her stop. Santana drips gravy of her blouse, and as she quickly dabs it away, Brittany watches, attention rapt. She loves Santana's every imperfection. She thinks, truly, that she's falling _in_ love with her, a thought she chooses to keep to herself, fearful that saying it out loud this soon will send Santana skittering back to the place where she doesn't call.

She spends the night Tuesday, she always does. Then, when Santana leaves for work Wednesday morning, and she kisses a half-asleep Brittany goodbye, she asks her to stay again, to come back after work. Brittany's flight is early Thursday morning, and Santana's hoping she can call a car and bring her there herself. She doesn't want Brittany on the bus in the middle of the night, she wants to make sure she gets to the airport safely. Brittany just smiles and nods at Santana's offer, the _thank you_ on her lips so much less than enough. She thinks Santana might be falling in love with her too. She's not sure she consciously knows it, she's not sure when or if she'll be able to say it out loud, but these sweet gestures of hers, leaving a coffee mug on the counter for her and a note when she leaves, sticking a new toothbrush beside her own in the bathroom, just for Brittany, taking her to the airport in the early morning hours, they scream it, louder than any words ever could.

They kiss goodbye Thursday morning in the foyer of Santana's house. Santana's hands are on Brittany's cheeks, and Brittany swoons at the way she holds her there, letting the moments tick-tock past, until the horn of a black car startles them, and Brittany pecks Santana's lips one last time, before they go to the car together. Even with the privacy divider, Santana is reserved, but she does squeeze Brittany's hand when they arrive at the airport, she does smile, all teeth, her dark hair illuminated in the early morning light streaming through the rear window.

"Have a safe flight, call me when you can so I know you got there safely." Santana murmurs, eyes always full of concern for Brittany's well being. Her own form of _I love you_ crisp and clear.

"I will. Have fun today."

"Okay." Her smile is tight lipped, and her eyes are sad, but Santana doesn't self-pity. She never has, she knows it won't get her anywhere. "Have enough fun for both of us though, just in case."

"I'll try. I—" The words begin to form on Brittany's lips before she remembers, and she shakes them away. "I'll call you later. Thanks for dropping me off."

When Brittany is safely inside the airport, the car pulls away, and Brittany touches her fingers to her lips, imagining Santana doing the same. Once she's boarded her flight, she puts her headphones on, and digging through her bag, she realizes that the only tape in her possession is Stevie Wonder. It seems to fit her mood though, and she closes her eyes, his words lulling her into the sleep she'd missed out on in her night hours with Santana, _But what it is, though old so new, to fill your heart like no three words could ever do._

In Mesa, everything is a flurry of excitement. Her parents are having their usual twenty friends over, serving food in the clay bowls they'd made in a pottery class, and conceding to silverware only because their younger daughter Cassidy rolls her eyes so many times. Brittany helps the best she can, but mostly, she smokes out back with her sister. and she gushes over this girl she met back in New York. She's lucky, she knows that. She's well aware that at this very moment, Santana doesn't have the same luxury she has. Santana is probably being asked by her _abuelita_ when she plans on marrying and giving her great grandchildren, and Santana probably has a twisted bramble in her stomach that might never come out. It worries Brittany, even from a thousand miles away, it worries Brittany, and though there's little she can do, _especially_ from Arizona, she can't wait until later, when she can pick up the phone, and she can at least speak in her most calming voice for Santana.

Dinner is great. Her parents' friends are always a trip. Hope and Rain regale Brittany and Cassidy with tales of their trip to Lesbos Island, and Bob and Judy talk about their nuclear weapons rally at Rocky Flats. Of course, they all want to know about the Pierce girls lives too, and Hope pulls Brittany into a hug when she tells her she's seeing this _amazing_ woman who she's really falling for. Her parents are thrilled too, of course, though they already knew about Santana, and though they're anxious to meet her, Brittany waves them off, unsure when or if that'll happen.

It's late when dessert is over, and Brittany, worried about the time difference, sneaks upstairs to her old bedroom, eager to make her phone call. Quickly, she changes into the new pajamas her mom left out on her bed, and she sprawls out, lifting the phone from the receiver and dialing the number she now knows by heart. When Santana answers, she sounds groggy, and though she feels bad for possibly waking her, Brittany can't help but smile at her sleep soft voice.

"Hey, it's me. Did I wake you?"

 _Hi, Britt._ Santana rasps. _I'm awake, just watching_ The Tonight Show _. Robert Blake is on so…_

"You and your serious movies." Brittany smiles, thinking of Santana, glass of wine in hand, wearing one of the floral pajama sets she'd seen in her drawer when she went to borrow a pair of underwear, relaxing on her couch.

 _There's some comedian up next. Jim Carrey. He's debuting his act, apparently. In case you're interested._

"Mom and Dad probably have it on downstairs, maybe I'll go back down and check it out when I'm done talking to you."

 _How_ are _your parents? And your sister too? How was your day?_

"They're all good. I wish I got to see them more…But everything was awesome. I totally feel like I'm gonna barf though, I ate way too much." Brittany leans back on her bed, grinning at the sound of Santana's laugh. "How was everything at your parents'?"

 _It was…it was fine._ Even through the phone, Brittany can hear Santana doing that thing she does, brushing everything off, burying it deep, deep inside of her, in that place that makes everything get wound and tangled in the pit of her stomach.

"You can talk to me, you know, Santana." Brittany tells her softly, and she swears that she can hear the smallest sharp intake of breath.

 _I know…but I_ can't. _It's fine, don't worry about it. Turkey and pigeon peas and cornbread the food was great._

"Good, that's the best part, right? The food?" She tries to hide the sadness in her voice at the way Santana sounds, and she pictures her, lip between her teeth, hands running through her hair.

 _Yeah, totally. I won't keep you, Britt, I know you're on long distance. But I'm glad you got there safely, and I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Your flight gets in at noon tomorrow?_

"Yup, then right to work." Brittany nods to herself. She wants to tell Santana the long distance is totally fine, her parents have a good plan, but it's obvious she's not in the mood to talk, and she doesn't want to push her.

 _Is it okay if I…if I send a car for you? I'll be at work, but…_

"You don't have to, Santana. I'm totally fine on the bus."

 _I know, but I want to._ Her voice is soft and sweet, and Brittany hears it again, that _I love you_ in her gestures. _If it's okay._

"Thank you. I mean, I've always wanted someone in a chauffeur's cap at the airport with one of those signs." She laughs, trying to lighten the dark mood Santana seems to be in.

 _I'll see what I can do._

"I'm only kidding! Don't go any more out of your way!"

 _Nothing out of my way at all. I'm just sorry I can't be there myself. I'll see you this weekend though, right? If you want, come stay over after work tomorrow…Oh wait, you won't have been home, never—_

"As long as you don't mind waiting up, I'll be there." Brittany cuts off Santana's adorable nerves. "The whole point of going home would be to shower and sleep, and I'd _much_ rather do that with you."

 _Sounds good to me. Goodnight, Brittany. And, don't forget about the comedian on Johnny Carson._

"I definitely won't. Goodnight, Santana." She adds a silent _I miss you, I love you at the end,_ thinking, hoping that Santana is feeling the same, before she sets the phone back on the receiver, and leans back, looking out the window as she thinks of her girl in New York, twisty and alone.

True to word, Brittany finds the next day that Santana had really sent a capped chauffeur for her, and Brittany shakes her head, swooning a little at the sight of the man holding up a sign reading _Pierce._ It's that swooning that gets her through the night's show, exhausted from a whirlwind two days of travel. But after, she gets to go to Santana, who's already in her pajamas, the television on and a glass of wine on a coaster on the coffee table. The way she kisses Brittany, it makes her stomach bubble, and Brittany kisses her back just the same, unable to believe how much she'd missed her in just a day. She waves off Santana's offers to heat up leftovers for her, in favor of curling up on the couch beside her, fingers soothing some of the jumpy nerves in Santana's body until Brittany falls asleep, head in her lap.

Something is off about Santana, Brittany can tell. They go to breakfast on Saturday, and Santana mostly pushes around her food. She's quiet, too quiet, and Brittany worries. She won't push, she _can't_ push, but it's concerning. She hates that she can't help her, she hates that there are parts of Santana that she locks so tightly away. She hates that she's falling so deeply in love with this woman, and yet, she just can't help her sometimes.

Sunday and Monday are busy. Brittany doesn't get to see Santana, she has a brunch with some important bank people for Christmas, and then Brittany has an extra rehearsal before Monday's show, because _Miss Berry_ wanted some choreography changed. But she looks forward to Tuesday, to take Santana to the falafel place on MacDougal that she loves, and then to see this dance documentary, a combination of their interests, to go home with her and kiss her everywhere and hope that her face looks less stormy and her muscles feel less tight. She looks forward to it, until the phone rings at two-o'clock, and she tosses aside her headphones when she hears Lauren screaming her name.

"It's Richie Bitch."

"Can you stop calling her that?" Brittany rolls her eyes, snatching away the phone and pressing it to her ear.

"Hurry up, Puckerman is supposed to call me."

"You don't own the phone, Lauren, and you're _always_ waiting for Puckerman to call you, even though you treat him like crap when he does." She resists flicking Lauren's arm to make her go away, and sighs when she doesn't leave the room, and instead, sits down on the couch, staring at her on her phone call. "Hey, Santana!"

 _Hi, Britt._ She sounds strange through the phone, and Brittany furrows her brow. _I'm really sorry…I'm going to have to cancel on you tonight._

"Oh…" Brittany tries not to sound entirely dejected, though it's their date night, and that _really_ sucks. "That's…um…that's okay. Work?"

 _No…I….I'm actually not at work right now._

"Santana." Her eyes widen, because Santana not at work in the middle of the day on a Tuesday is absolutely a cause for concern. "Is everything okay? Are you sure you're still breathing?"

 _Still breathing, yeah. I…I actually just got home from St. Vincent's._

"What?" She nearly shrieks, and Lauren glowers at her. "Santana! Why?"

 _I'm fine. I'm totally fine. I've been feeling shitty all weekend, and then I vomited last night, so…_

"So you went to the emergency room because you puked?" Brittany's fairly certain Santana isn't telling the full story, and she hears a sigh through the phone.

 _Yeah, I mean, there was blood, so I figured I shouldn't mess around with that._

"You _vomited blood,_ and you're still saying you're _fine?"_ The back of Brittany's hand presses into her forehead, and she sighs audibly. There's a difference, she wants to tell Santana, between avoiding self-pity and bring _entirely ridiculous._ "Santana."

 _Really. I'm am, it's just my ulcer, I've had it since college…but it's bleeding. They gave me medicine, told me to take it easy, and not to drink for awhile. It's not a big deal, I'm just not up for going out tonight, I'm sorry._

"Santana Lopez. Don't you dare apologize to me, and stop telling me you're fine, when you've got a bleeding sore inside of your body! I'm coming over."

 _You don't have to—_

"I'm well aware I don't have to. But I—I really care about you, and I _know_ you, you probably grabbed paperwork off of your desk on the way home from the hospital and are sitting at your desk at home working on it."

 _I'm really fine, Brittany._ Santana tells her, though her voice says otherwise, and she doesn't actually deny that she's doing _exactly_ what Brittany is sure she is. _I'm not going to be any fun tonight, I'm not going to ask you to come mope around with me._

"You're being completely ridiculous. You're not asking me anything. I'll be there in a half hour." Brittany hangs up the phone without waiting for a response, since the _last_ thing she wants to do is further work Santana up further, and she sucks in a deep breath to level herself.

"Whatsa matter? She got a paper cut from counting her money."

"Shut your fricking face, before I _punch you in it,_ Lauren." Brittany seethes, grabbing the keys to her bike and storming out of the apartment.

She's vibrating the entire way uptown, barely feeling the cold air on her face as she weaves in and out of traffic. When she makes it to Santana's block, she parks her bike, and she runs into the store on the corner, glad she actually remembered her wallet so that she can buy some damn ice cream. It's all she can think to do to help, and with a pint of vanilla tucked into a brown paper bag, she reminds herself to breath again, before she approaches the townhouse and rings the doorbell. It takes her by surprise when a heavyset woman with smiling eyes answers the door, but then she remembers that it's a weekday, and Santana has a housekeeper.

"Hi…um." Brittany wrinkles her nose, tugging on the bottom of leather jacket. "I'm Santana's… _friend_ ….Brittany. I think she knows I'm coming."

"Hello, Brittany. I'm Millie, Millie Rose, it's a pleasure to meet you." The woman smiles, and when Brittany extends her hand, she takes it between both of hers, big and warm and motherly, Brittany thinks. "C'mon in, she's in her office. Maybe you'll have better luck getting her to lie down them I've had. I've got a pot of creamy chicken soup on for her, might stick to her stomach a little, help her feel better."

"I brought ice cream." She lifts the package and shrugs her shoulders.

"I'll get it in the freezer then for you, go on back there, she's expecting you."

Only once has Brittany been in Santana's home office, a quick stop on the tour of her house, the one she'd finally gotten the second time she'd come over. It's usually shut up behind a dark door, like Santana wants to keep the work away when Brittany is over, but today it's open, and Santana sits in her swivel chair, lip between her teeth as she pours over the paperwork in front of her. She looks pale, Brittany notes, and she wears only leggings and a long t-shirt, her dark curls freed from their workday bun and piled up on top of her head. If she hadn't just come from the hospital, Brittany would think it made a beautiful picture, her sitting there in her serious office, dressed so casually, but as it is, it just makes Brittany's heart ache a little. She knows it hasn't been long since they've been seeing each other, but still, she worries after this woman, she worries that her work and her knots and the constant pressure on her will put her in an early grave, something that makes Brittany feel physically ill.

"Hi, Santana." Brittany says quietly, slowly shutting the heavy door behind her. She knows that in some homes in Santana's neighborhood, the help is supposed to blend into the walls, and be entirely silent about the affairs of the home, but it doesn't seem that way with Millie, _Santana_ doesn't seem like she'd treat her in such a way, and avoiding anything that would make Santana uncomfortable, Brittany wants to make sure they're afforded some privacy. Hearing Brittany, Santana snaps her head up from her work, and she offers her a small, sheepish smile. "Millie let me in."

"Crap. She was supposed to warn me…"

"She probably didn't want you to have time to come up with an excuse as to why you left the hospital today, and are sitting at your desk doing work."

"There's less than a month until Christmas…" She offers weakly, and Brittany just shakes her head, approaching the desk and perching tentatively on it. "If it makes you feel better, I didn't stop at the bank…I had some stuff here that I was working on over the weekend."

"That doesn't make me feel better at _all,_ actually, Santana. I think your health is like, _kinda_ way more important than that." Her hand finds Santana's and it rests gently a top it. Their eyes meet, and neither says a word for several moments, until Santana finally caps her pen and sets it down. "Thank you. Can I kiss you now?"

"Yeah, please." Santana's eyes flick rapidly over to the door, but there's a sort of desperation in her voice. Gently, Brittany brings her hand through Santana's hair, and her lips to Santana's, kissing her softly, tenderly.

"You gorgeous idiot." She laughs a little when their lips part, though she's not really kidding at all. "I know you said on the phone you were fine….but be honest with me, _please?"_

"I'm okay, really. The endoscopy sucked, and my stupid blood pressure is up, but I'm not dying."

"You could have called me, Santana. You know I would have come…right?"

"I didn't want to bother you with it. You were at work when it happened, and then I was really out it it. Plus, when I went, I thought they were going to tell me I was overreacting." She tells her, and then her eyes cast down, saddening. "And I knew they wouldn't let you in the room anyway…it just…didn't see, worth it to make you come."

"I don't care if you have a hangnail. If you go to the hospital, _please_ call me. I'll sit in the waiting room all night. This is what people do when they care about people." Her voice raises a little, and she tries to rein it back in. The idea of Santana in the hospital terrifies her more than she could have imagined, and the intake of her breath is sharp.

"Is this another dating rule?" Santana tries to joke, but it falls flat, and Brittany shakes her head.

"No, it's a _human_ rule! You were all by yourself?"

"Carlos came up and went with me. I figured it wouldn't disrupt his night of playing Atari with the classifieds in front of him like the jobs'll find themselves."

"I'm glad you weren't alone." Brittany's voice is softer, and strokes Santana's cheek again. "But…"

"Next time I'll call you, okay?"

"I really, really hope there's not a next time." She sighs, running her hands up and down Santana's arms, who for, she's not really sure. "I knew you weren't right on Saturday…"

"I just thought it was the combination of work and seeing my mother and all the wine I've consumed to deal with it. Of course, now the doctor says I can't drink until this thing is healed…I don't even know how I'll keep from snapping."

"Let me help." Brittany brings her fingers back through Santana's hair, massaging her scalp. "I'm good at relaxing you."

"Britt…as tempting as that sounds, I just, I don't think I'm feeling up to that right now."

"Honey." Her bottom lip pulls between her teeth at the endearment, so different than the _babe_ she usually calls Santana, and so different than the flippant way she says it. Santana doesn't comment, so Brittany just shakes away her own thoughts. "I was definitely not talking about sex, jeeze, you just got out of the hospital. I just want to rub your back, maybe give you some ice cream."

Santana doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what to say, Brittany thinks, so she takes her hand, black ink staining her fingers, always, and she just holds it for awhile, until Santana nods slowly. She's not used to this, Brittany knows, having someone care for her. She's tough and fiercely independent, but sometimes, Brittany is certain that she's just a tiny little kitten trapped beneath the facade of a ferocious lion. A kitten that has needed to be a lion to survive. It pains her, really, to see Santana grit her teeth and tense her muscles and _struggle_ against the whole world, but maybe, just maybe, if she can give her a place where she can _be_ a kitten, be _herself,_ then she'll relax, truly, she'll sleep without headaches and grinding teeth, she'll walk down the street without that fearsome scowl on her face, and she'll go to work without her stomach ulcerating.

"I need to…I need to send Millie home." Santana says softly, and Brittany nods, understanding what it takes to get her to fully let her guard down. "Her daughter is home from school for the week anyway, she'll be grateful for it."

"Do you want me to…?" Brittany isn't sure what she's asking, but Santana shakes her head, answering anyway.

"No, you can come with me. It's okay."

Following Santana into the living room, where Millie finishes folding the laundry, Brittany smiles as she watches Santana sit down beside her. She speaks to the woman with a certain softness, telling her to take the rest of the day paid, and tomorrow as well, telling her to give Marley (who Brittany can only assume is her daughter) her best, and thanking her for everything. Millie, in turn, is incredibly gracious, squeezing Santana's hand, and the scolding her to rest her body and stay out of the office for the evening. For that, Brittany feels a surge of affection for the woman, and even more so when she turns to Brittany and gives _her_ the instructions about the soup that's still hot on the stove.

Once Millie puts the laundry away and lets herself out, locking the door behind her, it still takes a few moments for Santana to stop her fussing over things. She looks exhausted, mostly, she's sure she didn't sleep in the emergency room overnight. But also, Brittany thinks, it's not just from that, but from _everything,_ and when she sinks down on the couch, she drops her head back on the pillows, and the shuddering sigh that comes from her lips makes Brittany's chest ache.

"What can I do?" She asks carefully. All Brittany wants is to touch her, to soothe her, but she waits, watching Santana squeeze her eyes shut, suck her lips into her mouth, hesitate, before she says a word.

"I think…I think I want to lie down."

"Okay." Brittany nods. "Do you want me to bring you some soup?"

"No. I'm not really hungry." Santana shrugs, then lifts her head to look at Brittany. She's getting shy about something, Brittany can tell, and though she wants to rub her thumb over the apple of her cheek, she takes a small hand in hers instead, squeezing it. "Do you think…maybe you can just…I don't know….this sounds dumb."

"I'm sure it's not."

"I just…can you come lay with me and hold me for a little while?" Her request is so soft and earnest, yet Brittany can't help the laugh that bubbles out of her.

"I thought you were going to ask me something totally weird." Brittany is quick to speak, not wanting Santana to think she's laughing _at_ her. "Of course I can do that,"

Brittany follows a few steps behind as they go into Santana's bedroom, and she lies on top of her made bed, pulling loose her hair so it cascades down on her soft pillowcase. Just for a moment, Brittany stares at her, big dark eyes watching her, before she gets up beside her, making a space in her arms for Santana to fit herself into. It's strange even as she does. It's different. Santana resting her head on her shoulder beneath the covers, naked after sex is one thing, but this, holding her in her arms, fully clothed, has this odd sense of vulnerability to it, a new familiarity, and somehow it's infinitely more intimate. They're silent for a long while, and Brittany just listens to Santana's soft breaths, feels the way her body curls into her, the perfect fit. After awhile, she thinks Santana may have fallen asleep, until a loud sigh breaks the silence,

"I'm really sorry you had such a bad week." Brittany whispers, unsure what there even is to say.

"I hate my mother." It seems to come out of her completely unintentionally, like she can't hold it in anymore, and Brittany squeezes her hip.

"I meant what I said on the phone the other night. You can talk to me about anything."

"Yeah. I…I know. It just really sucks to talk about, especially to you. It really sucks to _live_ it." Brittany doesn't say anything, she can almost hear Santana's head spinning, and she gives her the time to find her words and to speak when she's ready. "She started with me again on Thanksgiving. It takes everything in me not to fight with her on a _good_ day, but…they had friends from my father's office over for dessert. With their son."

"Oh." Brittany releases a breath, understanding, and she holds Santana a little closer.

"She's just always pulling crap like this, and it's just…all this stuff I've accomplished, it means _nothing_ to her, because I don't want to marry Marco Perez, or Joseph Martinez, or whoever the hell else she tries to hook me up with on every holiday. I…I paid for college on my own, because she didn't even want me to _go._ My mother is not a quiet lady. When I was seventeen, I heard her screaming at my father that I was going to turn into a _dyke_ at that school…like…I just…she acts like…" Santana just shakes her head against Brittany, and hot tears trail down her cheeks. It's the first time Brittany has ever seen her cry, and a lump forms in her own throat. "I just hate her. I hate going there, and I just can't _not."_

A moment passes, then another, and then, clearly coming to the realization of what happened, of the fact that she spoke out loud of the things that simmer constantly inside of her, Santana rubs at her eyes and squirms, mortified by her moment of weakness. When she tries to move away though, Brittany doesn't let go. She holds her tighter, she wants to make her feel all the things she's not sure she can say. When she settles again, Brittany kisses the top of her head, and she lets her lips linger there, breathing in the scent of her everything.

"God, I'm sorry…I didn't mean to…"

"I'm glad you did. I want you to be able to talk to me, to let it out, rather than stew in it all until you barf blood."

"It took my twenty-nine years to get that far. I think I'm safe for awhile." Santana laughs a little at herself, but Brittany _can't._ It's not funny, it's awful, and she hates that it happened at all. "I really though that's why I didn't feel right all weekend, like my body was just angry or something. Sometimes I just don't get it. I bought a house when I was twenty-six, I worked my way up at the bank and I feel like I've accomplished so much, but because I don't have some guy's ring on my finger, and I'm never going to give her grandchildren, she'll never think I'm good enough. And she doesn't even…she can _never_ know…."

"I know." Brittany's forehead crumples, and she wishes there was something, _anything_ she could do. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Santana sighs. "Thank you for coming here, and for holding me, and for letting me get snot all over your shirt."

"Anytime, I'm happy to be your human snot rag."

"Ew, Britt, gross." Her nose wrinkles, but she laughs a little. "I mean it though. It means a lot."

They lie for a long while, until Brittany gets up for the soup, insisting that Santana stay in bed while she gets it. Truthfully, she's afraid if she gets up, she'll end up back in the office, stewing in those numbers and other people's money. When she comes back in the room, Santana's sitting up in bed, charged into her pajamas with the phone cradled to her ear, twirling the cord with her forefinger. She smiles warmly at Brittany, but doesn't stop talking, though she pats the bed beside her.

"No, I'm fine. Yeah—yeah—she's here now." She tells whoever is on the other end, making Brittany's eyes widen a little. "You will—I don't know when, weekends are really hard because she—no, I know there are mornings, I'll talk to her—no, yeah, alright, I'll call you tomorrow after I get home from work. _Yes,_ I'm going to work, tell me you wouldn't—okay, I'm hanging up now, goodbye 'Cedes."

When Santana sets the phone back of the receiver by her bed, Brittany blinks her eyes rapidly, processing all that she'd heard. It wasn't eavesdropping, obviously, but it feels weird to discuss someone else's phone conversation when you're not a part of it. Eventually though, her concern wins out, and she sets the bowl of soup down beside her on the table and pulls her legs beneath her.

"I thought the doctor said you're supposed to be resting."

"I am resting, that was just Mercedes, I left her a message earlier and—"

"I'm talking about tomorrow, Santana, you can't just go back to work and pretend that doesn't stress you out too."

"Brittany, I have _three weeks_ to get everything done for year end, I don't have _time_ to just stay home and be sick in my bed."

"You don't _have time_ to take care of your body?" Brittany feels an unwelcome frustration rise in her chest, and though she's trying to avoid upsetting Santana, she's being utterly ridiculous.

"I don't have time to _not_ go to work." Santana's voice rises a little, huffing as she speaks. "I missed half a day today—"

"Because you were _in the hospital."_

"Why are you trying to fight with me?" She snarls, and Brittany gets up off the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I really don't need you to tell me what to do."

"Tell you what to do? Are you for real right now? Are you acting like thinking you shouldn't go to work for _one fricking day_ is such a bizarre-o idea?"

"No, you telling me what to do is what I have a problem with!"

"Okay, last I checked, I didn't _tell you_ to do anything. Excuse me for expressing some _concern_ about you running your damn body to the ground. I'm sorry that I lo—" Brittany gasps, realizing what she almost said out loud, eyes widening, and the back of her hand coming up to cover her mouth. "I'm sorry that I care about you."

"That's not what you were going to say." Santana's voice loses its bite, and she stares at Brittany, her expression unreadable.

"I just—forget it." She shakes her head. "Forget the whole thing. Do what you want, you're obviously not going to listen to me."

"Brittany."

"What, Santana?"

"Can you sit down?" Her hand pats the bed again, while Brittany's head spins. She'd had no intention of saying—or almost saying—that out loud, and she has no idea what the repercussions will be, she has no idea if she'll upset Santana further, turn her stomach to more knots, of Santana will tell her to go, or… But she sits. She can't not, not with the way Santana's eyes look, softer, she thinks, but she can't be certain. "Did you mean that? What you almost said?"

"It's not a big deal, I'm not expecting you to—"

"Britt, please answer my question."

"Yeah. Yeah, I meant it. I love you. But seriously, I'm not expecting you to—"

"I love you too." Santana whispers, and Brittany's heart races. Words and feelings, they're hard for Santana, but _God,_ she loves her too? She'd been so afraid of the reaction she'd get, and—and it's not loving her that Santana is afraid of, apparently, not at all.

"You do?" She fights the urge to kiss Santana silly.

"Yeah." It's breathy, and a tiny smile curls on Santana's mouth. "I have…I have no idea how to even _handle_ this, I've been thinking about it since…since the night I met your friends, and we came back and you—But yeah, I love you, like, kind of a lot. I just can't believe that you love me back."

"How could I not, Santana Lopez? You're pretty special."

She blinks rapidly, in disbelief, Brittany thinks. This woman, this scared and confused woman, she's something else entirely. She's so wholly good, though she constantly second guesses herself. She's driven, maybe because she has to be, but still, she has these dreams, and she just goes for them. She's beautiful, her face, her body, of course, but it goes so much deeper than that. Her _aura,_ Brittany's mom would say. It shines bright, even in the storminess that too often comes across her features. And when she takes Brittany's hand beneath a table, when their fingers brush over menus, when she grabs her by the front of her jacket and kisses her the moment the door closes behind them, she thinks it'll be impossible not to fall in love with her over and over again.

"I'm really glad." She presses a soft kiss to Brittany's lips, and she doesn't question the reasons why. "You don't even know."

"I think I do." Brittany twirls Santana's loose hair with her finger, then kisses her again. "And I'd really like to keep you for a long time. Maybe forever."

"Britt."

"Please, babe? Please take better care of your body? Please just take _one_ day to recover, even if you do work here? You get so tangled up and it can't be good for you right now."

"Okay." Her concession comes quietly, unable to resist the softness of Brittany, unable to deny this girl she loves one simple wish. "But I have to go back on Thursday, Ben Israel will burn the place to the ground if I'm out longer than tomorrow."

"Fine." Brittany huffs a little, though as much as she wishes Santana would take the rest of the week to rest, just one day is more than she'd actually expected. "But until I leave for work tomorrow, I get to spend every minute being your totally sexy nursemaid, kay?"

"If you insist, Brittany Pierce."


	7. Couldn't Miss This One This Year

After Santana's incident in the emergency room, and Brittany's fussing concern over her, she's been trying to take it easier. _Trying_ being the operative word. Though she hadn't told Brittany about the fact that they'd cauterized her ulcer to stop the bleeding—really, it would have done nothing but worry her more—it _did_ really freak Santana out, and though she can't control how work gets her, or how her mother gets her, or how her own expectations get her, probably worst of all, she _is_ taking the medicine from the bottles she's lined up on her bathroom counter like a geriatric, she's not drinking, and though she's supposed to stop drinking coffee completely, she's managed to cut back significantly. She's trying, going as far as giving up her other vice, the occasional cigar she smokes in her home office, closing her eyes and leaning back in her chair whenever she does, just shutting out the world completely. She's trying, but she's certain that if she didn't have Brittany and her magic relaxing fingers, Brittany and the sweet little ways she cares for her, without those other things that make her days more tolerable, she'd snap clear in half.

But she does have Brittany. She invites her over to decorate the tree that she'd ordered—she always orders one, she likes the idea of having something of the holiday that's all her own—and they drink hot chocolate while they do. Brittany belts out that Waitresses song at the top of her lungs, and she makes Santana laughs from the very pit of her belly. Then Santana presses Brittany on her back beneath the tree, white lights twinkling and Tiffany ornaments shimmering above them as Santana shows Brittany how she loves her. Then Brittany lifts her, gasping, and carries her to bed, making her forget numbers and deadlines and the impending Christmas Eve dinner where her mother will inevitably list everyone she went to high school with and their _accomplishments._ She forgets it all, as Brittany touches her, kisses her, curls two fingers inside of her and makes her writhe. She forgets it all, because she loves this woman, and miraculously, this woman loves her too.

It's the Saturday before Christmas when Santana really begins to panic. All though December, even with her chaos at work and her nights with Brittany, the wheels in her head have been spinning about what it is that you buy the woman who's _everything_ to you. She surreptitiously looks to the tellers at the bank, the women whose husbands and boyfriends meet them on Fridays, and she's unsatisfied with the jewelry they wear. She's not trying to be snobbish—though she's sure Brittany's friend Lauren would disagree—but she hates those bubble hearts they all wear, the hates the bracelets with fake looking gems in them. They all look the same. She doesn't want to give Brittany something anyone can. There's enough out there that she _can't_ give her, so she panics. She still doesn't have a gift, and she obviously can't give her _nothing._

So once Brittany goes home after breakfast, Santana considers calling Mercedes for help. She decides against it, figuring she's never _met_ Brittany, and she'll have to hear about _that,_ which will turn into lunch, and that will waste her precious shopping time. So instead, she gets dressed and wraps her white wool coat around herself before hailing a cab downtown. She walks Fifth Avenue, feeling tingles in her chest at the corner Santas, the pine boughs draped between buildings, the trees in the windows. She's never felt quite so giddy about Christmas, but this year… This year, she won't come home from her own personal hell on Christmas Eve to an empty house. She won't spend Christmas Day drinking a bottle of Cab and watching _It's a Wonderful Life,_ waiting for Mercedes to be done with her family so they can have their annual drink and bitch session. This year, she has Brittany, and this year, Christmas actually feels like something magical.

Her heels click against the floor as she walks into Cartier. Her palms sweat, and her neck feels hot. She's buying jewelry for another woman. It could be her mother, or her sister, or her assistant, for all the salesman would know, but still, she clenches her fists in her coat pockets, trying to keep her fingers from trembling. She looks through the cases of watches, of jewelry, glittering under the bright overhead lights and standing out against the blood red backdrop. She waves off help, and she studies the diamonds. She's no expert, but she owns expensive jewelry of her own, and the company's reputation precedes them, so she's unconcerned about the quality. She wants to buy Brittany something beautiful, but she also knows that Brittany isn't flashy. She needs a happy medium, and so she continues on, manicured nails tapping the glass countertops, until she comes to the case that holds familiar bangles. She's seen them before, adorning the wrists of her wealthy clientele, and as the word _love_ still tingles through her body, she nods to herself, knowing it's something Brittany would wear—and could, even with her leather jacket, even on her bike—knowing it's something _worthy_ of her.

Though Santana works through things to say if the salesman who comes to help her asks who the gift is for— _a close friend_ is the best she can come up with, though she's embarrassed at herself, because it's so wrong, and she hates that—he never does. He simply accepts her credit card and lifts the gold bracelet from the case, showing Santana how the screws work, before nestling it into its red box and tucking that inside of a bag. She's cautious, so cautious with her package as she steps onto the curb and hails a cab, clutching it to her chest until her front door locks behind her. It's not about the money, though it's certainly an expensive purchase, but it's about luck. Losing the first gift she's ever purchased for the girl she loves—or any girl, if she's being completely truthful—seems like a bad omen, and even as she wraps the box in silver paper, tucking a note inside and spending twenty minutes in an effort to tie the perfect bow, she treats it almost reverently. It's beautiful, she knows that for sure, but _God,_ she just hopes, really hopes, that Brittany loves it.

The last few days before Christmas pass in a flurry. She has so many last minute things to do, both at work and at home. She checks, double checks, triple checks her account spreadsheets, she hands out envelopes with Christmas bonuses to her staff (and accepts one of her own from her higher-ups, money she decides to put in a separate account, though for what, she's uncertain) she straightens her office and files away her paperwork. She fills an envelope with crisp hundred dollar bills for Millie, and sets it atop a purse wrapped for Marley and a big basket from Zabar's. She feels like Ebenezer Scrooge at the end of the play this time of year. So many people see her brusque demeanor and her short temper, but she's generous, overwhelmingly so, and she loves handing out her Christmas cards, a crisp _SL_ embossed onto each. She barely sees Brittany, because she has extra shows in the lead up to a dark Christmas Day, but when Santana finally sends her staff home and walks the floor with security on December twenty-third, she's ready, so ready, to have two days off.

They wake up together on Christmas Eve, Brittany having rung the doorbell to wake Santana from where she fell asleep on the couch waiting late the night before, but after sleeping late, they're both in a hurry. Before she leaves for work though, Brittany pulls Santana close. She holds her in her arms a little longer than normal, she murmurs soft _I love you's_ into both her ears, and Santana knows, she's trying to help her relax, fully aware that her afternoon won't be a good one. But still, she feels better than she had on Thanksgiving. She knows that she'll meet Brittany after work, and they'll go back to her house together. She'll relax once she's back in her arms, she'll kiss Brittany, and she'll know that all her mother has to say doesn't matter, not really, not when she's got this perfect sort of girl, not when she gets to spend all of Christmas Day with her, and not when tomorrow evening, she'll meet Mercedes, and two important parts of her life will finally converge.

Christmas dinner is its usual form of hell. Santana brings fruitcake from Eli's, and her mother sucks her teeth at it. She spends most of the avoiding the woman, or rather, most of the women, since they seem to have a one track mind. Instead, she listens to her _Tio_ Ignacio tell the story of his toe amputation—it turns her stomach far less than _abuelita_ telling her she's too skinny to ever find a man—she sits in the frigid air with her cousin Marita as she smokes her terrible Marlboro Reds, way too self-absorbed to pry in Santana's business, she crosses her legs beneath her on the floor and plays Candyland with little Sofia and Elena, smiling at their excitement over Santa Claus, and though she still feels twisty just being in her parents' home, it helps, just a little, to avoid the biggest thorn in her side, the woman who brought her into the world, and the woman who seems to despise her more with each passing year.

When dessert is finished, and gifts are exchanged, Santana excuses herself, her mother's chilly hug causing pangs in her stomach. She's called a car, and she's glad for that, because the streets are void of cabs. The driver helps her bring her gifts inside, and she tucks them away in her office to deal with in a few days, before she gets back in his car, and they wait outside the theater. The patrons empty first, and though Santana knows it'll be a little while before Brittany exits, but still, her heart thumps at the thought, so ready to be home and wrapped in her embrace, so ready to kiss her and love her. So ready to spend their first Christmas together. It takes less time than Santana expects, and she can't help the grin that spreads across her face when she sees the woman she loves, clearly not even changed out of her leotard, but wearing lime green leg warmers and high top sneakers beneath her heavy winter coat.

"She's here." Santana murmurs to her driver, neck flushing in an effort to hide her excitement. Quickly, he steps out to open Santana's door for her, and the moment Brittany catches sight of her, dark hair loose and curled, standing in her white coat, she lights up like a Christmas tree. "Hey, Britt."

"Hi." She continues to smile, and Santana lets her in the car first, before she slides in at her side.

Almost immediately, Brittany finds Santana's hand on the seat between them, and she squeezes tight, an _I missed you,_ an _I love you,_ a _how are you doing?_ all in one simple gesture. Santana laces their fingers together, and she grasps her tightly, her _I missed you, I love you, it could be worse, but I'm glad I'm here now with you_ silently spoken in return. They ride the forty blocks just like that, silent, but saying more than most can in an entire conversation, and finally, Santana tips the man generously, and Brittany chirps a _Merry Christmas,_ before they head inside.

As usual, Santana kisses Brittany just behind the door. She pulls out the tie from her hair, and she twists her fingers in it, pulling her closer, closer, until almost no space remains between them. She feels Brittany's leg wrap around her waist, and they continue to kiss until they're breathless. It's what Santana has been waiting for all day, it's the one thing that seems to heel every crack and tear inside of her, it's the thing she can't believe she lived without for nearly three decades. Gently she rubs her nose with Brittany's, and she feels that smile she loves, she feels fluttering fingers trail up and down her back, feels _love,_ strong and sure.

"You look so pretty tonight." Brittany tells her, bringing her hands around to play with the lapels of her coat. "I love this coat on you."

"You really have a thing for me and _white,_ don't you?" Santana chuckles a little, while Brittany finds a loose tendril of her hair to curl around a long finger. Those hands, they're never still, and something about that, it just intoxicates Santana.

"You just stand out against it, or something." Brittany shrugs. "I think you're hot always, but…"

"Maybe I'll have to get a white pant suit." She teases, Brittany swallowing visible.

"Don't even kid about that. I might like, totally combust or something."

"Then you'll know how I felt that time you came into my office in _just_ your leather jacket."

"Didn't want you working on a Sunday morning, and it was cold in here. I'm watching out for your health, if you remember."

"My _health,_ huh?" Santana presses her tongue between her teeth, and Brittany snorts. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

"You're the one who reads the paper every morning, I'm one-hundred percent sure that someday you'll read about the relaxability of sex on very important banker ladies."

"I love you." The way the words escape her lips so easily never fails to surprise her, but when Brittany makes up words, or scientific studies, or anything really, it makes Santana's heart skip, and they come out almost on their own. "And scientific study or not, you do relax me, so, so much."

"Good." She pecks Santana's lips and grins widely. "I'm accomplishing my mission. Now, I'd really like to get _out_ of these clothes, and lay on the couch in nothing but t-shirt and the panties I think _you_ will really enjoy, while I _finally_ see that Christmas Carol movie you want me to see _."_

"You _probably_ shouldn't have told me about your panties, maybe we should postpone it until I'm not…distracted." Santana squeezes the sensitive spot on her hip, making Brittany squirm and swat her hand away.

"Nope, we're totally watching the movie, panties'll still be there when it's over." Brittany laughs at the face Santana makes, and kisses her again. "And also, I love you too."

Santana quickly changes into pajamas—though she'd originally felt weird about wearing her little sets while Brittany throws on whatever shirt she can find, that embarrassment went completely out the window when she found out that Brittany's fixation with unbuttoning her goes far beyond just the blouses she wears beneath her suits—and she goes back into the living room to set up the new VCR. She's fiddling with it, when she hears Brittany emerge from the bathroom, and when she cocks her head in that general direction, she swallows hard at the sight in front of her. She's just _Brittany,_ wearing her Frankie Say Relax shirt—one that now lives in a drawer _here,_ and that sometimes, Santana ends up wearing when she gets up in the morning to make them breakfast, something that nearly _always_ ends with her sprawled on her back with Brittany eating _her,_ breakfast long forgotten—and her hair piled on top of the head, but the way she sways her hips seductively as she walks, the way she _knows_ she's teasing Santana, it sucks all the moisture from her throat and sends it….elsewhere.

As Brittany settles herself on the couch, feet on the coffee table and knees intentionally bent, she doesn't say a word, she just smirks to herself, and keeps her eyes on Santana as she fumbles to get the movie playing. When it's finally on, the opening credits blaring through the house, Santana flicks the overhead lights off and the tree lights on, then takes her place at Brittany's side. It becomes a game, of sorts, the teasing. Brittany can always tell when Santana doesn't want to talk about her day, and truly, she's just glad that she's in a playful sort of mood, seeing Brittany, despite the fact that she's sure she didn't have the greatest of days. But the game is good for Santana. She squirms a little as Brittany's hands comb through her hair for awhile, massaging her scalp, as she always does to relieve the tension of her day. She wiggles when she kisses her neck, suctioning her lips just enough to make Santana's spine tingle, but Santana is resolute, keeping her eyes trained on the television. She's going to make it through the movie, since Brittany demanded they watch it, she's not going to let the hand that settles directly between her legs distract her from that

Her resolve lasts a long time, longer then either of them expected, really. It lasts until The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come appears, and Brittany has unbuttoned five of the seven buttons of Santana's pajamas top—sneakily, at least if Santana wasn't electrified by her every motion—when Santana decides screw the movie. Brittany had shifted into a position where she's spooning Santana from behind, her hand occasionally squeezing Santana's breast over pink silk, and her breath hot in the side of her face. Grabbing Brittany's hand away, Santana rolls on top of her, and while Brittany immediately moves her hand to palm one of the cheeks of Santana's ass, Santana kisses her slow and deep. She can't get enough of her, panting breaths and tiny moans, and it doesn't take long before she unceremoniously shoves her hand down the front of Brittany's underwear. The wetness she's met with their makes her groan, and figuring two can play at Brittany's game, she slides just the tips through, before removing them completely, and bringing them to her lips.

"You haven't even seen my panties yet." Brittany smirks, though her eyes are dark, watching Santana suck on her fingers, and she fights the urge to turn her over and take her hard and fast. "And I bought them just for you."

"I thought you wanted to watch the movie." Santana husks, making Brittany shiver. "Can't do both."

"Screw the movie. There's always next year."

That's all it takes for Santana to pull Brittany in for another deep kiss, curling their tongues so Brittany can taste herself, before pulling away and sliding her whole body downwards. She purposely takes her time pulling up Brittany's shirt, feeling stomach muscles tighten beneath her fingertips , but when she finally does, she's awarded with a glorious sight, Brittany covered in barely a scrap of red and green lace. Santana gasps, and she swears she's drooling a little, until she hears Brittany's melodious laughter, and fingers thread through dark hair.

"Unwrap your present, Santana, what are you waiting for."

"I think I'll take my time with this one." She struggles to catch her breath, and she nips at the milky soft flesh of Brittany's inner thigh and presses a kiss to the tiny ballet slippers on her hip. "The packaging is too pretty."

"Fuck." Brittany hisses, as Santana sucks damp fabric in her mouth, letting Brittany feel the tip of her tongue poke out. As hands wind tighter in her hair, Santana smirks against her clothed sex, and she casts her eyes upward, meeting crystal blue, pupils blown and wanting. It's not typical of Santana to tease like this, but it seems to be turning Brittany on a _lot_ more than she'd expected, and so, she continues tracing the tip of her tongue over soft lace, driving Brittany mad.

The way Brittany whines as Santana drags her nails down muscular thighs sends molten heat straight to the pit of Santana's stomach. She inhales deeply, the raw scent of Brittany intoxicating her as she grows wetter, wetter with every trail of Santana's tongue. These things, they're the things she's never allowed herself to enjoy with another woman, her scent, her taste, the way even through fabric, she can feel sensitive nerves jump against her lips, and she savors them every time, going down on Brittany constantly climbing higher on her list of favorite things.

"Babe." Nails scratch at her scalp, desperate, and though Santana loves so very much the effect this teasing has on Brittany, she's just as desperate to get her mouth on her, to feel the way her muscles clench, to hear her moans grow louder. "Fuck me."

The way she demands it turns Santana on like nothing else, and she finds the finds the ribbon ties at her hipbones, nearly tearing them as she pulls them loose. Santana's skin tingles as she reveals Brittany's dripping center, and she shuffles on her stomach so she's better positioned between her legs. The remaining buttons on her top come undone, but she doesn't bother undressing them any further, she doesn't think she _can,_ really, she just needs to taste Brittany again, she just needs Brittany's hands pulling her closely, she just needs to ravish Brittany on the very same couch where she's been ravished so many times.

Bending Brittany's right leg up against the back of the couch, she drapes the left one over she shoulder, and she hums into soft blonde hair, the vibrations driving Brittany crazy. She doesn't tease any longer, Brittany is keening and moaning, thighs shaking against Santana's cheeks. She licks through her, releasing her own moan, before her lips wrap around her clit, and her fingers press inside, twisting, curling, seeking out the spot that makes Brittany's body thrash and her eyes roll back. This effect she has on her, it's the hottest thing she's even seen in her life, and she feels another jolt hit her as Brittany's body rolls upwards and she cries out Santana's name.

When Brittany comes, her thighs trap Santana's head between them, and she doesn't stop pleasuring her, her heart racing as Brittany comes again, softer this time. When legs fall limp against the couch, Brittany's hands open and close, calling Santana up to her. She's disheveled as she shimmies her body, hair everywhere and her top falling down one shoulder. Tracing her tongue over her bottom lip, she smiles as she stares at Brittany's face, flushed and sweaty. Her body aches with arousal when she kisses Brittany, another moan escaping her lips at the taste of herself in Santana's mouth, and she feels a strong thigh press between her legs. It feels so dirty, rutting against her, not even stopping to shed her pants, but having foregone underwear when she'd changed, the cool silk and hard pressure against her sex is deliciously maddening. Brittany's hands find her ass, squeezing as she dictates her pace, and sharp teeth scrape her collarbone, bringing her over the edge embarrassingly quickly.

Her cheeks burn when she collapses onto Brittany's chest, that dancer thigh still flexing, as Santana's body tremors with aftershocks, and when she feels Brittany's fingers play at the tie on her waist, she has to still them. She's too sensitive, too _everything,_ and she struggles to catch her breath when Brittany kisses her lips, the only thing illuminating them the fuzz of the television and the bright white of Christmas tree lights. It's only the early hours of Christmas morning, and they've got so much to come, but already, Santana feels it, in her rapidly beating heart, in Brittany's never still hands scratching at her back, in the occasional pulse that still thrums between her legs. Santana feels it, that this Christmas, it's the best one she's ever had, the best one, by a long shot.

When she wakes in the morning, Santana blinks her eyes open, hardly remembering how she'd ended up in her bed the night before. Her disheveled pajamas are still on, but she feels Brittany's arm draped over her and their legs tangled together. She'd fallen asleep on top of Brittany on the couch before, her face buried in Brittany's neck and those fingers, still dancing up and down her back. Even then, in a position that would mess her back up if she'd stayed that way the whole night, she'd drifted into an easier sleep than she ever had after a holiday with her parents. Even after being woken up—by soft kisses on her neck, urging her to get up so they could turn off the lights and head to the bedroom—she fell right back into her slumber the moment her head hit the pillow. This girl, she's good for her, even Santana can't deny that, and as she snuggles back further into her, she feels a soft kiss on the back of her neck, one that makes her whole body fill with warmth.

"Morning." Brittany's voice is sleepy, and Santana bites her lip a little, loving that sound. Normally, Santana slips from bed, eager to brush her teeth, to wash her face, to rid herself of morning breath and dried sweat before she kisses Brittany, but not this morning. This morning, Christmas morning, the first holiday of her life where she doesn't wake up alone, she turns in Brittany's arms, meeting bright blue eyes. She smiles softly, tracing her finger over the sleep-crease in Brittany's cheek. "Merry Christmas, babe."

"Merry Christmas to you too, Brittany. What are we going to do with a whole day together? Think you'll be sick of me by two o'clock."

"Nah, I'll know I only have a few hours until I meet your friend Mercedes, and she saves me from the crippling boredom that I'll probably have from having to hang out with you for a _whole_ day." She teases. "Totally weird that we've never done this before though. Lame-o jobs keeping us from lounging around your house, naked or otherwise."

"You're really adorable." Santana swoons a little, feeling like she can't even keep her warmness inside. "Thank you for spending the day with me."

"Psht, like I'd be anywhere else. Will you let me make you Christmas breakfast?"

"I love you, Brittany, but no I will not. Last week you almost burned down my house making popcorn."

"Totally not my fault, the instructions were confusing."

"Millie put a breakfast casserole in the freezer for me before she left for the week, I defrosted it yesterday. All I need to do it put it in the oven and make a pot of coffee."

"Well, since I can't resist Millie's cooking, I _guess_ that's fine." Brittany pokes her tongue through her lips, and Santana cups her cheek, pulling her in for a deep kiss. " _If_ you let me make the coffee."

"Promise no small fires?"

"Smoke doesn't always equal fire." She laughs. "But even I can manage coffee without a catastrophe."

Feeling a little sticky from the night before, Santana changes from her pajamas into leggings and an oversized sweatshirt while Brittany uses the bathroom. Figuring she has a few minutes, she avoids even beginning to deal with her disheveled hair, and she slides open her top dresser drawer, revealing the silver wrapped box. Her pulse quickens when she picks it up, hoping that Brittany will like it, hoping she doesn't think it's too much—or worse, too little. Quickly pulling on warm socks, she pads out to the living room to nestle it beneath her tree, and when she sees a small rectangular box wrapped in shiny green paper, one that she doesn't remember seeing there the night before, she feels her face split in a grin over this amazing girl.

Once she's got the oven preheating for the casserole, resisting the urge to start the pot of coffee, she heads back into the bedroom. Just as she steps over the threshold, Brittany exits the bathroom, having slipped on nothing but panties and white socks under her shirt, and her hair pulled up in a side ponytail. She waggles her eyebrows at Santana, and then kisses her, mouth tasting of toothpaste, and skin smelling like Santana's Kiehls face wash. Santana waves her into the living room, telling her that she kept her end of the bargain about the coffee, before closing the bathroom door behind her and trying to make herself look semi-human for breakfast.

With some of the tangles combed from her hair and her mouth fresh, Santana re-emerges to find Brittany at the table in the kitchen. She'd grabbed the paper from outside of the door, and she sits stirring sugar into her coffee. Santana's mug sits beside the _Times,_ and once the casserole is in the oven, she takes her place, glancing at the headlines while Brittany's feet wriggle up to nestle in her lap. Taking a sip of her coffee, she smiles over it at Brittany, before pulling out the Arts and Entertainment section and passing it across the table. Santana loves this, it's something she'd never expected to care for, but sharing a paper, silently sipping coffee, with the feet of the girl she loves in her lap, it's the most amazing kind of domesticity.

They're quiet all through breakfast, just enjoying each other's company and the beginning of their lazy day together, and once the dishes are washed, Santana refills their mugs so they can go into the living room. Once the tree lights are flicked on, and Brittany has the television tuned to CBS, they curl up beneath the big cashmere throw on the couch, Santana's head resting on Brittany's shoulder. For the first time, they're airing Disney's Christmas parade live, and Brittany, ever the lover of parades and performances, is captivated by it. Santana just watches _her,_ mostly, enamored over the fact that this girl, with her leather jacket, her tattoos—the bird on her shoulder still Santana's favorite, but the slippers on her hip a close second—and her cocky confidence is just captivated by dancing toy soldiers and Mickey Mouse dressed as Bob Crachit. When it's done, and Brittany is dancing in her seat, Santana's eyes drift back over to the tree. Christmas morning is almost over, and—

"So do I get to give you your present now?" Brittany chirps, seemingly reading her mind, and Santana just shakes her head a little. "No? Oh…okay, it's just that my family always does gifts in the morning and…"

"No, no. I mean, yes. We can definitely do gifts now, I was just thinking the same thing."

"Great minds think alike, duh." She taps her temple and shimmies off the couch, sitting cross legged beneath the tree and grabbing the green box. Santana just stares at her—she thinks she needs to stop doing that, it's seriously creepy, but her blonde hair in the twinkling lights…—until Brittany pats the space on the floor across from her, and she joins her there, knees brushing and Brittany thrusting the box into her hands. "Open it!"

As she slides her thumbnail along the tape to split it, Santana feels her pulse jump. Every single thing with Brittany is a huge deal, every single first with her is a first _ever,_ barring, obviously, the one and only "boyfriend" she ever had, her senior year of high school, and sometimes— _all_ of the time—she just needs a second to compose herself. She can sense Brittany's impatience as she carefully unwraps the box, and once it's opened, she has to catch her breath at the heart dotted envelope reading _Merry Christmas to my lady love! Love forever, Brittany._

"I love being your lady love." Santana admits, the apples of her cheeks warming at the admission.

"I love being yours too." Brittany presses her palm to Santana's cheek and leans in to kiss her. "Even if you're the slowest gift opener ever."

Teasing Brittany, Santana opens the envelope almost painfully slow, with Brittany's fingers dancing on her knees. When she _finally_ pulls the papers from inside, Brittany looks like she about to explode, and she raises her eyebrows excitedly as Santana reads the two gift certificates inside, one printed, and the other handwritten by Brittany.

"I know you can buy whatever you want for yourself, but I also know you won't take yourself to the spa to freaking relax for a few hours. So I figured if I got you it, and promised dinner and a second much more _naked_ massage after…"

"I don't think you know what it does to me, the way you want to take care of me."

"You totally deserve it. I mean, I can't cook, and I know your super particular about how your clothes are folded and how the cups go in the cabinet, so I'll leave that to Millie, but I can deliver takeout and use my magic relaxification powers on you."

" _Your_ gift certificate was the best part." Santana resists being a total weirdo and hugging to her chest, _personalized dinner delivery and happy ending massage—with as many happy endings as you want (picture me winking when you read this)._

"I made it myself, obviously. I also made the other gift in the box…"

"There's more? Britt."

"Duh, why would I put just gift certificates in a box? Open the tissue paper!"

Santana doesn't tease Brittany, not opening this one. She removes the tissue quickly, and she reveals a penny with a hole punched through the top of Abraham Lincoln's head and a key ring threaded through. Though she knows full well that damaging federal currency is illegal, and she'd normally be the first to speak out against it, she can't now. This…it's too special, too _Brittany,_ and she presses her thumb over the year, _1983,_ and the heart embossed around it.

"Do you like it? Tina and Lauren's craft of the week last week was money jewelry. I know that you wear diamonds and stuff, and that you probably shouldn't wear a penny necklace to work, or people might get mad about you _wearing_ money, since it's totally illegal, or whatever, which doesn't make sense to me, because why can't you do what you want with your own money? But I wanted you have a reminder of me all the time when we're not together, and your keys are always in your bag, so…" Brittany rambles, chewing a little at her thumbnail.

"It's perfect, Brittany. Thank you." Santana blinks quickly, not really wanting to cry over a key chain, and she leans in to kiss her again, feeling the way Brittany smiles into her mouth. "I love it so much."

"Good, I'm really glad. I wasn't sure, and I just didn't know what to get you."

"These are the best gifts I've ever gotten in my life." She's earnest in her words, _nothing_ has ever meant so much as knowing someone cares about her as deeply as Brittany does, and she'll cherish that all her life. "Just do me a favor? Tell Tina and Lauren to be careful? I don't want any of you getting in trouble."

"Oh, don't worry, they moved on to macaroni pictures. I usually hang out and do art with them, but I think food art is gross. Plus, we had a rat once, so it seems like a bad idea all around." Brittany furrows her brow, then shakes it off and brightens again. "Anyway, sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Santana smiles affectionately at her. "I love hearing your crazy roommate stories. But do I get to give you my gift now?"

"Sure!" Brittany grins, eyeing the little box that Santana reaches for, and then accepting it from her hands.

"If you don't like it, you can return it and get something else. Don't feel like you have to wear it, or anything…I mean, it's just—"

"Hey, how 'bout I open it first?" Brittany cuts off her nervous insecurities and tears the paper open, eyes widening at the label on the box. She lifts the lid to reveal the note inside, carefully written in Santana's remarkably neat left-handed print.

 _Britt,_

 _Thank you for loving me. Just a little something special for you on what I hope is the first of many Christmases that I get to call you mine._

 _With all of my heart,_

 _Santana._

"Definitely the first of many." Brittany affirms, and Santana clenches her hands into fists, a futile attempt at calming her shaking nerves over Brittany opening the gift. She gasps a little when she opens the silk bag nestled in the box, and the gold bangle slips into her hand. "Santana! This is…it's too much!"

"It's not…"

"Are you _insane?"_ She's giggly as she shrieks the words, calming Santana infinitely. "You can't just go buying me stuff like this! Charles bought this bracelet for _Diana! Diana,_ Santana, as in the _princess!"_

"I know." Her eyes turn to her lap as she bites back her smile. So what if maybe she remembered reading that in the style section awhile back? So what if it maybe, just a little bit inspired her purchase? No, she hasn't been with Brittany longer than a few months, but still, she's never felt like this before, she's never even believed that she would _ever_ feel like this. Brittany, she's special. Brittany, she deserves special things. And Santana, she'll be damned if she doesn't give them to her. "And now I'm giving this one to you."

"Santana." Brittany's voice softens, her eyes soften, her whole _self_ softens as she continues fingering the bracelet, almost in awe. "You're like…completely nutso, and you _really_ didn't have to buy me this, but _thank you._ I love it, I love it a _lot._ Not as much as I love _you,_ but it's up there. I know you've just given me _this,_ but you also need to give me a kiss, like, right immediately."

"I can do that." She laughs, leaning back into Brittany, assuming it's just a quick peck on the lips, and being taken by surprised when Brittany kisses her so hard that it takes her breath away and makes her head spin. "Can I…put it on you?"

"Please! I have no idea how to work these tiny screws."

Brittany's lips purse, and Santana pecks them again before plucking the tiny gold screwdriver from the box and the bracelet from her hands. Brittany's attention is rapt as Santana opens it up, and slips it around a slim wrist, brushing the inside of it with gentle thumbs. Once it's clasped, and Santana inspects her work, making sure it's secure, Brittany holds out her arm and turns her wrist, inspecting how it looks. At the sight, Santana's heart flutters again, and she touches her penny, the idea that each of them have a physical reminder of the other making her insides twist in the best possible way.

"It looks beautiful on you, Britt."

"Doesn't take much with _this."_ She gives a regal wave and a hair flip. "This is the best gift I've ever gotten too, San. Although, you could have given me a Whopper wrapper and I would have loved it, since it was from you."

"I'll remember that when your birthday comes around."

For the whole day, they do a lot of nothing. They'd talked about seeing a movie—Brittany's been obsessed with _A Christmas Story,_ she and Artie saw it three times, and Santana figured, if Brittany wanted to, she'd go see it once more with her, so she could at last figure out what this _shoot your eye out_ thing is all about—but instead, they watch the Yule Log on television, and then, when they switch to _Miracle on 34th Street,_ Santana makes hot chocolate and lights a _real_ Yule log in the fireplace. It isn't until the pre-cooked roast from Zabar's is warming in the oven that they finally get into the shower and put on real clothes to prepare for Mercedes' late evening arrival.

Wanting a real Christmas dinner with Brittany, Santana sets the table with good china and real silver. It's just the two of them, but still, it's special, and somehow, Santana feels like they make their own little family, a family that won't judge her, a family that has no expectations but that she love her. Brittany enjoys the meal immensely, and Santana is grateful for that. Brittany has a blood family, one that loves and accepts her, one that she _enjoys_ spending the holidays with, and Santana just wanted to give her something else that she'll enjoy. When they're finished eating, Brittany washes the silver, and Santana the china—since Brittany is incredibly nervous that she'll break it—and then sets the peach pie they'll share with Mercedes on the table before retiring back to the living room.

"Um, Santana?" Brittany asks, eyes drifting over to the phone. "Do you, uh, mind if I use your phone to call home? I told Mom that I'd call her, and I've been having such a good time with you today that I kinda forgot."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, of course, Britt. You never have to ask, phone's totally open to you." Her cheeks flush a little, embarrassed that she'd forgotten that Brittany would want to call them, and hadn't offered sooner.

"Okay, neat, thanks. They're kind of, I don't know, they usually end up talking to Artie or Mike, or even Tina when I call home. They might want to talk to you, and phone-meet you, or whatever. But if you're not comfortable with that, I can tell them you went out for milk or something."

"Oh." Santana chews at her bottom lip. She hadn't expected that, really, though she knows Brittany's parents know that she's bisexual, and that she's currently in a relationship with a woman, that she's in a relationship with _her._ "No, no, I don't want to be rude, and they're your parents. I'd like to say hello and wish them a Merry Christmas, if they want to talk to me."

"You're sure? I promise, I won't be upset if you're not okay with it." She promises, and Santana strokes her cheek.

"I know you won't, and you don't even know how much I appreciate that. But it's okay, I know that they…accept you, and won't, I don't know, find my job and try and get me fired or something. I don't know when I'll get to meet them for real, so I want to, definitely."

"Okay!" Brittany's whole face lights up, and it makes Santana feel so good about being able to do this. "I'll call them right now, they probably haven't started dinner yet."

Brittany picks up the receiver on the end table, and dials the number on Santana's clunky old rotary phone, one she prefers in her living room and bedroom, since the ones in both her office and home office are obviously analog, and have all kinds of buttons on them. Breathing deeply to steel her nerves—and she's already got more than enough, knowing Brittany will meet her best friend in just a few hours—she watches Brittany fiddle with her bracelet as she speaks to her parents, gushing about her _bracelet like Princess Di,_ as she tells them they just _hung out at Santana's all day,_ as she expresses how much she misses them.

"Yeah, yeah she's right here Mom. Hold on, let me see if she can come to the phone." Brittany looks to Santana, who swallows the lump in her throat and nods. "Okay, bye Mom. Bye Dad! Love you too! Merry Christmas!"

"Hello?" Santana takes the phone from Brittany and presses it to her ear, not sure what to expect. "Mr. and Mrs. Pierce?"

 _Pierce, are your parents on the line? Someone's looking for Mr. and Mrs. Pierce._

 _Whit, my parents have been dead for over a decade! Did you smoke some bad MJ? The stuff in the bathroom cabinet's kinda old. There's a joint—_

 _Shh! Quit talking about that—_

"Mom! Dad!" Brittany yells so they can hear it, while Santana squirms a little in her seat. "Knock it off! You're on long distance and you're making Santana feel weird!"

 _Nothing to feel weird about, Santana, we were just, um, talking about my cousin…Mary Jane._

 _You don't have a cousin Mary Jane, and if you did, why would ya smoke her? Smoke her_ up, _maybe, depending on what side of the family she comes from…_

 _Stop being such a dimwit! One day the government's going to be on the phone and you're gonna get us busted._ Santana hears shuffling and static on the phone for a moment. _It's Brittany's gal pal on the line—_

 _Sarah?_

 _Her name's Santana, not Sarah! We talk about it every day!_

 _Right! Hi Santana! Sorry if you were looking for my parents, they're dead._

"No, I just—" Santana sputters, totally derailed by all of this. "I was talking about you, when I asked about Mr. and Mrs. Pierce."

 _Honey._ Brittany's mother's voice lowers to a whisper. _Are_ you _smoking MJ?_

"What?" She gasps. "No, never. I mean…it's—"

"Mom, if you don't stop talking to Santana about pot, I'm hanging up the phone!"

 _Thank you._ Santana mouths to her, really uncertain about what she should and shouldn't say. "Excuse me for being rude, what would you like me to call you?"

 _Whitney and Pierce?_ She enunciates the words, like Santana is crazy for not assuming that. _Or, if you don't like that, you can call us by the names we went by on the commune, Sunshine and Twilight. Ah, makes me feel young again._

"I think Whitney and Pierce are just fine." She looks to Brittany, who nods, rolling her eyes a little at the antics of her parents. "It's nice to…meet you, sort of…and I hope you're enjoying your Christmas."

 _Oh, we are! And thanks for taking care of our baby B for us! She never gets to come home for Christmas, we'd have to mortgage our house to pay for the flights, and she's usually real homesick. Me and Pierce are glad she's got you now."_

"Oh." Santana sees Brittany study her face, not hearing Whitney's quiet words. "Well, I'm really glad I've got her too."

 _We'll let you get back to it, then. Brittany tells us you're a busy woman who never takes a day off. Slow down, relax and enjoy your life, you only get one of 'em._

"I'll, uh, I'll try. Merry Christmas Sunshine, merry Christmas Twilight." Santana uses the strange names and Brittany just beams at her.

 _Well you just made my day. She's a keeper, Brittany!_ Whitney shouts through the phone, getting a thumbs up she can't see from her daughter. _Don't do anything we wouldn't do, and trust me, there ain't a hell of a lot on that list._

The moment the phone is back in its cradle, Brittany is covering Santana's face in kisses. She'd changed into slacks and a shimmery blouse for dessert with Mercedes, and Santana can tell, if Brittany had her way, they'd be on the floor already. But there's always later, and truthfully, Santana's still a little sore from the night before, and she'd rather wait until later, so her knees don't buckle when her friend walks in the door—she'll never hear the end of _that,_ she knows. So instead, she quietly suggests that they walk over the the park, see the Christmas lights in the snow, and just breathe in a little of the early winter air.

Brittany jumps at the chance for that, zipping up the warm turquoise ski coat that her parents had sent in her Christmas box and sliding her feet into fur lined boots. She looks so different than her usual self, younger, Santana thinks, and she tugs the strings on her hood, pulling her in for a kiss behind the door, before they head outside. They walk side by side, gloved fingers brushing in front of darkened houses, and looks shared between the bustling ones. It's a beautiful night, cold, the coldest Christmas ever, the paper said, but still, the kind where Santana wishes she could kiss Brittany in thick snowflakes under brightly colored lights with no one batting an eye. But even just this, being close to her, it's enough for her, and on the edge of desolate Central Park, when Brittany hooks her pinky with Santana's for only a moment, she knows, once again, that it's enough for Brittany too.

So much snow wets through their clothes, that they change again, Brittany kissing melted flakes from Santana's eyelashes, and smoothing the still frozen ones into her hair. She tugs out an outfit from the drawer Santana has given her, and Santana, she dresses more casual than Brittany has ever seen her in front of another person, in just jeans and a soft sweater. It's a huge deal for her, Brittany meeting Mercedes, that she'd originally dressed up for the occasion, but now, standing with Brittany in patterned purple leggings and her off the shoulder top, her little bird peeking out, she changes her plan. She wants to relax, she wants to feel like she's _home,_ with the two most important people in her life, and more than anything, she doesn't want this to be something uncomfortable.

At nine-fifteen, Brittany has put in Santana's Bing Crosby record, and she's taken the ice cream out of the freezer to go with the pie. Santana's on the couch, legs curled beneath her, and though she feels Brittany's eyes on her as she insists on getting everything ready for dessert, Santana doesn't open hers. She can't help what she pictures, she can't help thinking that this day, this holiday, it's some kind of insight into her future. She can't help but see this happening over and over again, with _her,_ with the woman she's fallen in love with, and who loves her back. It feels good, it feels right, and she takes deep, even breaths, until she feels soft lips press against her own.

"You look so serene, like a Christmas angel." Brittany murmurs, running her fingers through curly black hair.

"I think I'm far from an angel." Santana shrugs, but Brittany straddles her lap and nuzzles her nose.

"You are to me."

"You're a smooth talker."

"Maybe a little." She sucks her teeth and flips her ponytail. "Totally worked on you though. I got in your pants _and_ in your heart. Maximum achievement."

"Were you at the arcade with Artie this week?" Santana chuckles a little, shaking her head at Brittany's lingo.

"For like an hour, while our clothes were in the dryer."

"You know you can do your laundry here, right?"

"Yeah, I do, but Millie already ends up washing my underwear sometimes by accident. I don't want to leave my leotards in the dryer or something and make it weird…" Brittany chews her bottom lip, afraid of causing issue with someone who obviously cares so deeply about Santana.

"I'm _pretty_ sure she's noticed that when you're still here when she gets here sometimes, there aren't sheets to be changed on another bed."

"And that's…okay?"

"You're not my dirty little secret, Brittany." Santana toys with the bracelet on Brittany's wrist, and feels the pulse jump beneath it. "There are too many places where I can't be authentic with my love for you, but never in my own home. Millie's a good lady, and a smart one too. I think she's had suspicions about me for a long time, and if it wasn't something I thought she'd be okay with, I wouldn't have her working for me."

"I just don't want to contribute to putting all you work so hard for at risk." She laces her fingers with Santana's solidifying this partnership they have. "I never want to do that."

"And it makes me love you all the more. But I think, Britt, you told me you wanted to keep me forever. I want that too. Keeping you forever might mean that maybe someday, you'll want to move in here with me, or something. What am I gonna do, tell Millie I suddenly got a new roommate and all the other rooms are permanently closed so she shares my bed, and be careful because you might find her sleeping there naked if she had a long night and she sleeps in? Oh, and also, feel free to wash our underwear together?"

"Sounds romantic." She teases a little, stroking Santana's cheek with her thumb.

"Something like that. I worry about a lot of people—"

"You? Worry? No fake."

"Shut up." Santana laughs, flicking Brittany's shoulder. "Millie isn't someone I worry about. She treats everyone like her daughters…or…" She scowls a little, thinking of her own mother. "How people _should_ treat their daughters. Her actual daughter Marley's friend Unique, she was born a boy. She took her in, after her parents kicked her out. They don't have a lot of money, and still…"

"She did?"

"Yeah, Marley told me about it. I try and take them out to nice dinners a few times a year as a thank you for all Millie does, and I felt awful, once I found out, that Unique was home alone and uninvited. She's still in high school, so it's rough for her…"

"I can't imagine." Brittany looks into Santana's eyes, not just talking about Unique, but Santana too, with all her inner turmoil, with big parts of her world that she has to hide in. "She's lucky then, to have Millie."

"Yeah." Santana catches the double meaning in Brittany's words. "She really is. And I mean it, if you want to do your laundry here, or we can have Millie do it…"

"I appreciate the offer, Santana, I really do, but for now, I'm going to stick with my tradition with Artie. Maybe though, one day, if you get a roommate who sleeps naked in your bed, that'll change."

"Noted." Santana gets butterflies at the thought, and at the way Brittany kisses her after, but before she had the opportunity to say something else, the doorbell rings. "There's Mercedes."

"Here, let me…" She trails off, using her thumb to wipe Santana's smeared lipstick. "There, now you don't look like you were making out with a hot girl all day today, only, like, seventy-five percent of it instead."

"I love you. Are you ready to meet Mercedes?"

"Totally. One of the only humans you like that I haven't met yet."

"And as soon as Carlos gets back from South Beach, you'll officially have met the entire list."

As she stands up, Santana straightens her sweater and fixes her hair, watching Brittany wring her hands a little, before she stands up and moves around the books on the coffee table. It's strange to see the confident Brittany jittery and nervous, but she _is,_ and Santana knows that, despite her efforts to hide it. But she knows, there's absolutely nothing for her to be nervous about when it comes to Mercedes.

They'd been roommates in college, and immediately, upon meeting, they'd had a territorial standoff, both of them wanting to take up more than their share of space, before realizing despite how completely different they were, they had more in common than they'd initially thought. Mercedes, the daughter of a dentist in Westport, who'd gone home to her family's church every Sunday, and Santana, the daughter of a doctor in Port Washington, who'd rejected her family's religion all together while she struggled with herself. There weren't many women on their campus who looked like either of them, and their weren't many women as driven as either of them either. They'd forged an alliance, watching each other's backs, and their real friendship came months later, when they'd headed to a party together, and Mercedes had forgotten her keys. Ready to go home, she'd searched for Santana to borrow hers, and found her in the bathroom, trashed on tequila shots, hand down the front of some girl's jeans.

Mercedes had taken Santana back to the room that night, afraid to leave her alone in the state she was in, and she'd taken care of her while she emptied her stomach over and over again throughout the night. When Santana had woken up the next morning, pounding headache and makeup all over her pillow, with the realization of what had happened the night before, she'd gone into a complete panic, trying to pack all of her things, trying to move out, before Mercedes could confront her about what she'd been doing, and _who_ she'd been doing it with. Of course, she wasn't as quiet as she thought she was, and the moment Mercedes sat up in her bed, Santana had burst into apologetic tears. Mercedes Jones was the first person that Santana Lopez had come out to—the first of only two—and since that day, at nineteen years old, they've stop by each other through hookups (Santana's), breakups (Mercedes'), graduations, job rejections, work related stress, family related stress, and anything else that got in their way. They're closer than friends, they're like sisters from different families, and Brittany meeting her, it seems like the most important thing she's ever done.

"Wheezy!" Santana laughs, opening the door to Mercedes, who hugs her coat close against the cold wind.

"You're the one who moved on up to the East Side, Satan." She bustles past her into the warm entryway, opening the closest to put away her coat and shoes away—she _did_ live with Santana, she knows just how particular she is—before giving her a real hug. "So merry Christmas and all that, where is she?"

"Are you drunk already?"

"Please, I just came from service." She clicks her tongue and reaches into her bag, pulling out a bottle of merlot. "But I will be soon."

"You insult me, bringing your own bottle."

"Because you have terrible taste. And also, I know you're not supposed to be drinking, so I'm not going to barge in and open your crap wine."

"Not _crap,_ thank you very much." Santana rolls her eyes. "And I was going to open a bottle of white for Brittany anyway."

"Well good, more of this for me. I've been waiting for the day I meet a Santana Lopez girl for ten years."

" _Please_ don't tell her any embarrassing stories."

"The first time you met Sam, you told him about the time I had a stomach virus and couldn't miss my calc final and ended up crapping my pants. I'm pretty sure you're owed one."

"In fairness to me, you were almost an hour late to meet me that night, and I'd had lunch with my mother, so I was drunk by the time you got there and annoyed at you for making me wait. Besides that, Trouty was a Chippendales dancer who went by the name of White Chocolate and had lips like a baboons ass. He was a _walking_ embarrassing story." Santana shudders at the thought of Mercedes' ex. "Nothing you could do would make you less fabulous then him."

"That was a…weird sort of compliment."

"Act like you don't know that I love you. Just…please? I really care about her and I don't want her to think I'm weird."

"You _are_ weird. But fine, I prayed every day you'd find someone who makes you happy, and I won't contribute to messing that up. Lord knows you're already fighting against yourself."

Mercedes follows Santana into the living room, and they're met with the sight of Brittany holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white. She'd already set the glasses on the table and poured a diet 7-Up into one for Santana. Seeing Mercedes, she sets the bottles on the table, and she wrings her hands nervously, then wipes them on her thighs, unsure what to do with them.

"Hi." She reaches out her hand finally, her bracelet catching the light as she does. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Brittany, Brittany Pierce."

"Hello, Brittany, Brittany Pierce, I'm Mercedes Jones."

"No, um, my name isn't Brittany Brittany." Her cheeks flame, and Santana goes to her side, setting a hand on her lower back. Nervous Brittany is adorable, but she also doesn't want her to feel like _both_ of them are staring at her. "It's just Brittany."

"Britt, you don't have to be nervous around her, she crapped her pants in a classroom full of people once."

" _Really,_ Santana? Of _all_ the stories you have about me, _why_ is that your favorite?"

"It's okay." Brittany giggles, tension broken. "That totally happened to me once at an audition. I was so sick and didn't want to miss it. I didn't get the part, although, it was for _The Pirates of Penzance,_ and personally, I thought it made it more realistic. They didn't have bathrooms, obviously, on pirate ships, you can't tell me people didn't inhale bacteria and end up with explosive diarrhea."

"Anyway." Mercedes wrinkles her nose. "As _great_ as sharing stories about feces with you has been…how about some wine, and a different subject?"

Knowing that Santana likes to pour, Brittany sits down on the couch and watches her expert hands uncork two bottles and fill crystal glasses. She takes her glass from Santana, and Mercedes toasts to love, health and Christmas, once Santana is seated at her side, right hand settled just above her knee. Around Mercedes, she's _different._ She's far less reserved than she typically is, and when Brittany's fingers creep closer, Santana takes her hand, squeezing it and running her thumb over the bones of her wrist. Mercedes tells them stories from her Christmas dinner, her Uncle Jeff finally proposing to his girlfriend of twenty-years, her brother and sister-in-law in law announcing their pregnancy, her sisters acceptance to medical school. It's good, happy Christmas news, and they offer her congratulations, they share in her excitement, even Brittany, who's never met any of them.

Brittany leans all about Mercedes' job, though she's still not entirely sure how stocks work, since it seems like imaginary money to her, and Brittany makes her laugh, telling stories about Miss Rachel Barbra Berry and her insane antics. Santana, she sits back and listens, mostly, sipping her 7-Up and enjoying how well her best friend is getting along with the woman she loves. As Brittany gets more and more tipsy, she curls into Santana, touching her as she talks, and making Santana feel warm inside. She'd meant what she'd said earlier to Brittany about being authentic with their love within the four walls of her home, and here tonight, with Mercedes, she gets a sort of thrill, even just in front of someone who knows her so well.

"I love your bracelet, Brittany." Mercedes notices the bangle on her wrist, when Brittany waves her arm, doing an impression of Lauren threatening her life for leaving hair in the shower drain. "Cartier?"

"Oh." Brittany looks to Santana, suddenly shy. "It was a Christmas gift."

" _Wow."_ Mercedes cocks an eyebrow at Santana, the girl who just a few months ago waved off her friend's suggestion that she find someone to date, rather then simply sleep with, with a _it just doesn't work that way for me, 'Ce._ In response, she shrugs sheepishly, and scratches her collarbone. "So when you said you had it covered, you weren't kidding."

"It's awesome, right?" Brittany beams, extending her hand toward Mercedes. "It's the second best thing ever."

"What's the first?" Santana asks her, shocked the bracelet ranks that high up on Brittany's list.

"Duh, you."

With her ears burning, Santana presses a quick kiss to Brittany's temple, and avoids making eye contact with Mercedes during her display of schmoopiness. It's late, once Mercedes finishes her bottle of wine, and Santana serves dessert, and they've all sort of forgotten that tomorrow is Monday, and it's back to work. Rather than attempting to hail a cab in Santana's quiet neighborhood so late on Christmas night, Mercedes opts to call a car service to come for her, and as she begins to get ready to go, Brittany excuses herself to the bathroom, leaving the other two woman alone in the living room.

"So?" Santana looks to Mercedes hopefully. "What do you think?"

"I like her, she seems sweet, and she's hilarious."

"I hear the _but_ in there, 'Cedes." Santana crosses her arms over her chest with an indignant huff. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, you just know I would hate to see you get hurt."

"Mercedes Jones, what about her indicated to you that she'll hurt me?"

"Nothing, really, I'm just saying, you fell for her really fast, you have a lot of money—" She starts, and Santana puts up her hand, cutting her off.

"It's not about money. For once in my life, it's not about money. She couldn't care less about it. She takes me out for ten for a dollar dumplings on Canal Street, 'Ce, and we eat them in this probably really dangerous drug dealer park. She insists on me not bringing her to fancy dinners, and she's such a jerk sometimes, purposely ordering the least expensive thing on the menu when I do. I mean like, really, she ordered a side of Brussels sprouts last week, until I ordered something else for her. She called me _nutso_ when she opened her gift, and yelled at me because she loves the Royal Family and knows that Diana has the same one. She's really, really different than me. I became a banker instead of a singer because it was the practical thing to do, she became a dancer because she loves it, and she's so much happier than I am in my big stupid house, living with four other people in a two bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side. The girls that I've…always hooked up with, or whatever, they were impressed with the wine and the flowers and whatever else I bought, because I have absolutely zero game and that kept me from making a fool of myself. But Britt, she's impressed by _me._ She thinks it's cute when I wear my grandma pajamas, and she lures me out of my office because she says work and money aren't the most important things in the world. She rubs my temples when I'm getting a headache, and kisses me all over when I've had a crap day. She's just, she's not like that, okay? I get that you want to protect me, and you know I'd do the same for you, I _did_ do the same for you, with ass lips, but I don't need it, not from her. And I'll tell you this right now, if I'm wrong, and she somehow takes my money and leaves, it'll be my broken heart I'm crying about, not my empty wallet."

"Damn, girl, I never thought I'd see the day…"

"Yeah, well, me neither. But I'm in love with her, like, really stupidly in love with her, and honestly, she's probably _way_ too good for me."

"Don't sell yourself so short, Santana. I'm not into ladies, but you're a pretty nice catch yourself. But if she makes you this happy, don't screw it up."

"Trust me, I'm trying." Santana laughs a little, pulling Mercedes in for a hug. "She's great though, isn't she?"

"You have got it _so_ bad." She shakes her head in disbelief. "Yeah, she is, and I'd like to see if she's as good of a dancer as you say she is. Dinner and her show after New Year's Day? My treat, since you apparently spent a crap ton of money on her Christmas gift?"

"I think I can afford it." She sucks her teeth. "But I'll never turn down _you_ treating. And thanks."

"For what?"

"Just for being the person I can be myself in front of. It means a lot to me, and to Brittany too."

"Well, you know I wish you didn't have to have a short list, but I've only got two strikes against me in our business, and none in my family…"

"Yeah, well, you know my mother was sure to inform me of all mine yesterday. Apparently sixteen strikes and I'm still not out. But my uterus is getting musty, in case you wanted to know."

"Are you okay?" Mercedes just shakes her head at the idea of Santana's mother saying that.

"You know, coming back from there to her last night, I actually really am."

"Good. Now I like her even more. She does seem like she's really good for you. You're a little less…high strung."

"What a nice way of saying I'm acting like less of a raging bitch." Santana snorts, just as Brittany comes back into the room, teetering a little in her tipsy state.

"Just don't ask Ben Israel about that." She teases Santana, having already heard her share of stories about Santana's least favorite employee.

"Oh, girl, you've got five years worth of that moron's idiocy to catch up on. I don't know who hates who more."

"It better be me, because he should be _thanking_ me that he still has a job. But I'm not talking work, it's _Christmas."_

"Mercedes Jones, and _you_ are?" Mercedes extends her hand in mock introduction, and Santana swats it away when the taxi driver blows the horn outside.

"Go, before this guy wakes up the Cohen's kids, and I never hear the end of it."

"Goodnight, Mercedes!" Brittany chirps, and the wine makes her giggle inexplicably as she says it. "It was _so_ nice finally meeting you."

"It was nice meeting you too, Brittany, Brittany Pierce, and I'm sure it's just the first of many meetings."

"I hope so." She sucks her lips into her mouth, then smiles softly at Santana.

"Merry Christmas, ladies, Santana, I'll call you about that dinner."

They stand at the door, watching as Mercedes gets into the backseat of the back car. Once the car pulls away, Santana closes the door, triple locking it, and tugging to make sure it's secure, before she turns to Brittany. Her socked feet twist and drag on the floor, always dancing, and her grin at Santana is wide. She'd only had two glasses of wine, but given the fact that she doesn't drink it often, she's actually more drunk than Santana had realized, something she finds absolutely adorable.

"You seemed way serious when I came back from the bathroom. Is everything okay? Does Mercedes not like me? Was it the poop story? Because that was really gross, and I totally shouldn't have told it."

"No, Britt, hey." Santana stills her hands that grasp at open air, and she pulls her close. "That's just what we do, we watch out for each other, and she wants to make sure my heart is safe, because I've never let anyone have it before. She actually _really_ likes you, and wants to see your show."

"No way! Really? I'll totally see if I can get free tickets—"

"Don't worry about that, Mercedes can afford to take me to a show for once in her life."

"Oh." Brittany's tongue pokes through her teeth. " _You're_ coming too?"

"Do you not want me to?" She's taken aback by Brittany's tone.

"No, no, no! Not at all! Of course I want you to come again! You just can't tell me when, okay? Because if I know you're in the audience, I'm going to be _so_ nervous, and Rachel always knows, and will completely flip out."

"Okay, I won't tell you. I didn't know you were superstitious like that."

"Totally. I'm a dancer, it's like, the rule or something."

"Good to know." Santana smiles, burying her fingers in Brittany's hair and pulling her close to kiss her. "I love you, Britt, and I loved this Christmas with you, more than I think you can ever understand."

"I love you too, babe, and you can make sure you tell Mercedes that I'm going to protect your heart too, because I never want to be the one who breaks it, I want to be the one who heals all those sad cracks the word put in it." She nuzzles Santana's nose, and looks into those deep, shining dark eyes. "Christmas promise, the kind that can never be broken."


	8. I Need You To Love Me, I Need You Today

January brings difficulties for Brittany at work. After a particularly brutal critic's review of the show, calling it _a glorified high school production,_ Rachel Berry goes on a rampage. In addition to grueling additional hours of rehearsal—more so to train the constant turnstile of replacement dancers than anything—Rachel is particularly aware of any singular misstep, paranoid that any mistake could mean investors beginning to pull out, something she's probably not entirely wrong about, if Brittany thinks hard enough about it.

There's an odd sort of silent terror among the dance troupe. No one speaks about it, for fear of being overheard and canned immediately, but it's there, buzzing through each and every one of them, the moment they step into the theater each day. Brittany and Sugar stick together, though neither of them really believe there's any sort of safety in numbers, and even the usually flippant Sugar Motta is subdued. They all need these jobs—even Sugar, with all her talk of her father's money and connection—to make rent, to eat, and far more terrifying, because they know that it could be a black mark against them for any future jobs. They know the show is failing, the attendance falls every night, but that doesn't mean Rachel isn't a star, that doesn't mean that going up against her can't have dire, possibly career ending consequences.

So Brittany's exhausted. All of her energy is spent dancing and holding her tongue, and late at night, on the ones where she can muster the strength to get up to Santana's, she crawls almost immediately into bed, just wanting to kiss her, just wanting to be held. Though she doesn't say much to Santana, since she's such a worrier, and she already has all these beginning of the year knots in her stomach—Brittany's fairly certain she has knots for each and every time of year, really—Santana's no fool. She knows something's not right there, so she kisses the bags beneath Brittany's eyes, she massages the groan of tired limbs, she offers her silent support, because that's how they operate. They speak between words, they love without question.

At the end of the month, Santana surprises her outside of the stage door. True to her word, she didn't tell her when she and Mercedes would come, and Brittany is beyond grateful for that, especially now. They'd waited for her for dinner, and though Brittany feels like she could collapse with exhaustion right there on the sidewalk, though Santana promises it's totally her choice, she takes the bundle of lilies from her Santana's arms, and she smiles through dinner, as the two women shower her with praise for her performance. She's tired and she sort of hates her job these days, but with Santana's hand beneath the table, stroking up her Lycra clad thigh, with Mercedes, a very wealthy and completely unbiased onlooker telling her that she was stunning, Brittany feels like it really is okay.

It happens in February. It's a bitter-clear kind of night. It had snowed the day before, but the streets are plowed, the clouds are gone, leaving only white piles and black ice in the wake. It's twenty-one minutes after five, and Sugar hasn't come in yet. The show doesn't start until seven, but it doesn't matter. Five-oh-one is late, five-twenty is a death sentence. With her leg up on the bar, chin to her knee, and her eyes on the clock over the door in the dressing room, Brittany feels dread in the pit of her stomach. She looks to David Martinez, the manager of the company, clipboard in his hand, and she sees him worry his lip between his teeth. Sugar is one of their best dancers. Sugar is volatile, and uses every bit of self-control not to fight with Rachel Berry. And Sugar is way too late for her own well being, or Brittany's liking at all.

There's a flurry of activity at five-thirty-one. Brittany's on the floor in a split, her forehead against dark wood, when she jerks it up quickly. David is flustered, and behind him, there's Sugar, blood all over her face, holding her arm against her chest. Brittany gets to her feet instantly, rushing to her friend's side,

"Holy hell, Shug, what _happened?"_ Brittany inspects her head, where it's seemingly just a deep surface wound, though she's no doctor.

"I got hit by a freaking car." She shrieks. "Freaking yuppie bastard in his Cadillac banged a right on red, right into me. He tried to call an ambulance, but I don't have time to go to the goddamn hospital. I'm _here._ I still made it here!"

"Chill out, Sugar. You're bleeding all over the place, and what's the matter with your arm?"

"Doesn't matter, Britt just help me get the blood out of my hair and into my costume before—"

"What's the commotion in here?" Rachel's shrill voice overpowers Sugar's, and the injured girl visibly shrinks. "What is _this?_ Number six, does my time mean nothing to you?"

"Miss Berry, she's just changing in to her costume. The girl had an accident on her way here, but she'll be ready to go on in five." David interjects, stepping between Rachel and the girls, Brittany pulling back Sugar's hair to get a closer look at the gash there.

"Not like _that_ she's not. Send her home, I won't have this on my stage, she's done. Find me a new dancer number six."

"Miss Berry—"

"Mr. Martinez, I don't believe I need to repeat myself. Part of a dancer's job is to look a certain way, just as my job is to sing a certain way. If by some terrible misfortune, I fell and broke _my_ talent, do you think investors would still be interested in backing my productions?"

"But I can still—" Sugar starts, pleading, desperate, but Rachel puts her hand out, cutting her off.

"Take a look at yourself in the mirror. You should have been more careful. This isn't a charity service, and at this time, you're no longer up to par. I can't have a bloody dancer making a mockery of my life's work."

"David! Do something." Brittany ceases holding her tongue as Rachel turns away, but he just shakes his head sadly. Sugar is one of the best dancers in the company, but there's nothing at all he can do to save her job. Rachel is a desperate woman, seeing this particular show, her heart's pride down to the very last note, bomb, and she'll take no prisoners as she acts out of the madness at the very really likelihood that it's about to be deemed a total flop. "Miss Berry! Please! You can't do this to her! She needs to get her head stitched up, and her arm looked at, but she can do it after. It'll take us three minutes to wash away the blood, and her costume has a hat! She'll be fine! Don't fire her, please!"

"Brittany, _don't."_ Sugar hisses, fingernails digging into her arm.

"It's not right, Sugar! You came to work after you got hit by a car, and you're bleeding. You didn't do anything wrong! She can't just fire you!"

"Excuse me." Rachel's body whips furiously around, and she rises on her tiptoes, arms crossed over her chest, staring down Brittany. "Number eleven, is this _your_ show?"

"I—uh—no, Miss Berry." Brittany's eyes widen as she sees the fury in Rachel's.

"That's right. It's not. It's _mine,_ everything in this theater is mine. And you see, you're just a dime a dozen dancer." Something terrifying flickers through Rachel's eyes, and Brittany shivers. "I've made it quite clear the need for everyone to be a team player right now, and to put the needs of the show first. You don't seem to be doing that, Eleven."

"I'm always a team player, _Rachel."_ Brittany isn't sure if she's pleading or fuming, but really, she doesn't think it matters either way. She's already shot herself straight in the foot but standing up for Sugar, and really, her basic moral code. "And so is Sugar! We're both early every day, we're the first to nail the new choreography even though it changes twice a month, neither of us has ever messed anything up!"

"Britt, stop, it's not worth it. Just go out there, _please?"_ Sugar begs her. "I'll be fine."

"Mr. Martinez, find a new—"

"No!" Sugar wails, and the other dancers are silent as they busy themselves, trying to avoid the crossfire of this fight. "She's sorry! And she needs this job!"

"She should have thought about that, shouldn't she have." Rachel flicks her hair. "I'm done wasting my angelic voice on this conversation. Clear out your things, security will be here to escort you out in five minutes. Mr. Martinez, I trust you'll handle this from here? The show must go on."

"Yes, of course, Miss Berry."

David doesn't bother with apologies, once the other dancers have exited the dressing room. He knows they're not enough, they're not even close to enough. He knows Sugar didn't deserve to be fired, and he knows that Brittany did what _he_ should have done to protect her. But it's a dog eat dog world, and the dance company has no contractual protection against the whims of Rachel Berry—something they _all_ knew going into this show—so if David protected every dancer that had been wrongfully dismissed, he'd have been out of a job months ago. Brittany knows she made a really stupid move, one she's in too much shock to fully fathom, but she also knows, deep in her heart, that she couldn't have lived with herself if she hadn't.

They make it out to the street before security comes, Brittany was a small duffle bag over her shoulder, and Sugar with a folded over paper grocery bag. Brittany had stripped from her costume in record time, and in just her leotard and leggings, she's more grateful than ever for the warm coat her parents had given her, and the new leopard print leg warmers that Santana had slipped into _her_ drawer—she saw them and thought of Brittany, she'd said—to combat the early February cold. Sugar's still bleeding, but before she can decide what it is she should do, Sugar slaps her hard on the shoulder.

"You're a freaking _idiot,_ Brittany. What's _wrong_ with you? You shouldn't have done that!"

"It wasn't fair! How could I sit there and watch that without doing something. You're my friend, Shug."

"And that's showbiz, kid." She does her best Billy Flynn impression, but Brittany can't even manage a bitter laugh. "You need that job, Brittany, what are you gonna do? Go back to freaking Arizona?"

"No, no." Brittany shakes her head, but her panic at the thought quickly seeps into her every cell, threatening to paralyze her. "I'll—I'll figure something out."

"I'd tell you to go back in and beg—"

"—but we both know there's no point." Brittany finishes. "You really need to get your head checked, and your arm too."

"Quit worrying about me, Daddy'll take me in the morning. I'm not sitting in the ER at night with the junkies and bums."

"Be nice, Sugar." She smiles weakly.

"Are you going uptown or downtown?" Sugar asks, and for just a moment, Brittany is stupefied. She thinks of going home, where Artie and Mike will buy her ice cream, where Tina will tell her self-deprecating stories of how it could be worse, where Lauren will roll her eyes, but actually show a small sliver of compassion. And then she thinks of Santana, and her cheeks flame. She got fired from her job. Her roommates, they've been there, the product of their lifestyles, but Santana, she's _Santana._ She's got forty-six contingency plans in place. She doesn't know a thing about toeing a line. But she's _Santana,_ and Brittany knows, whether she can relate or not, that's whose arms she needs around her tonight.

"Uptown."

"Share a cab?" Sugar asks, as Brittany mentally calculates how many dollar bills remain in her wallet. "Daddy'll come out and pay when I get home, don't worry."

"Sugar—"

"Don't _Sugar_ me. You're an idiot, but you're a good friend. Least I can do is drop you at your girlfriend's on my way home."

"Okay." She relents, _really_ just wanting see Santana, really hoping it'll do something about this strange numbness that's overcome her. "Okay, thanks."

Even the usually chatty Sugar is quiet on the ride home, while the driver puffs a fat cigar out his window, and the icy air feels like it's forming ice crystals on Brittany's eyelashes. It feels surreal, all of it, like Brittany's going to wake up in Santana's bed, and it'll be Friday morning again. That she'll feel the brush on lips against her own, before she turns over and gets a little more sleep after Santana leaves for work. That she'll smile sheepishly when Millie comes in as she's eating Life cereal over the kitchen sink, and slink out to go home to get ready for work. That she'll call Sugar and tell her to look both ways before she crosses the street. That this won't have happened at all. But as Sugar tells her she'll call her and let her know what the doctor says, as she slings her duffel back back over her shoulder and treads carefully on the thin layer ice coating Santana's front steps, that possibility seems less and less likely.

"Brittany." Santana's brow furrows as she opens the door and finds Brittany standing there. "What's wrong? What happened? Are you alright?"

"No." It's all she can manage as Santana ushers her inside. In the foyer, her bag falls from her shoulder and drops to the floor, hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

"Okay, okay." Santana wrings her hands nervously, unsure what to do with him. "Britt, take your coat off and come inside. I'll turn up the heat, you look like you're freezing,"

"Yeah. Um. Okay. Yeah." She can do nothing but nod and fumble with the zipper on her coat as Santana fusses about the house, playing with the thermostat, turning on a pot for tea, giving Brittany a moment's space, because that's how their relationship works.

By the time Brittany manages to untie her sneakers and get them off her feet, flexing her cold toes to make sure she can feel them, she hears the whistle of the teapot blow, and Santana appears back in the living room, carrying Brittany's favorite mug. She sets it down on the table, and Brittany smells the apple cinnamon—her favorite, that Santana started adding to the shopping list Millie takes every Tuesday—as Santana perches on the edge of the couch. She can barely meet Santana's eyes as she sits down beside her, but she can tell she's beyond worried, one hand gripping both the hem of the button down she still wears from work and the fabric of the grey sweatpants she's changed into, her forehead creased deeply, and her lip between her teeth, biting down hard.

"I got fired." She finally gets out, accompanied by a hiccuping sob, and all the icy numbness inside of her breaks as big tears roll down her cheeks. Her hands fly to her face, and she drops her head into them, not sure what else to do. "Rachel fired me."

"What?" Brittany hears a flickering anger in Santana's voice, one that quickly subsides into honey-warmth as she feels two small hands take the ones that cover her eyes, slowly lowering them. "Oh, baby, come here."

Without pause, Santana scoots closer to Brittany and engulfs her hunched form in her embrace. It's rare she uses endearments, and Brittany notices the tenderness of it, and lets herself be held as she cries more tears than she thinks she's ever imagined possible. All her stoic resolve in the theater, on the sidewalk, in the cab with Sugar, it crumbles as she breathes in the lingering scent of Chanel and honey, as she hears soothing whispers in her ear, as she feels her Santana, squeezing her tighter, tighter. Despite Brittany's perpetual holding of her head high, despite her dancing her ass off and barely paying her bills, despite the sometimes cocky attitude in a leather jacket on a motorcycle, she's not unaffected, and this right here, the tight embrace of the woman who loves her so, it's her safe place, and there, she cries for the better part of an hour, until she thinks all her tears have run dry.

"I ruined your shirt." Brittany hiccups, once she finally lifts her head from wet, stage makeup stained fabric.

"I don't give a damn about my shirt, Britt. I only care about _you."_

"I messed up _so_ bad. God, I'm such an idiot. I just flushed all my dreams down the freaking toilet because I had to be a hero."

"What happened?" Brittany hears the caution as Santana asks, but her hands take Brittany's back in a tight hold.

"Sugar got hit by a car." Dark eyes widen at her words, but she shakes her head slowly. "Shes fine, I think. She dropped me off here in a cab, she didn't want to go to the hospital or anything, even though she was bleeding, and I think she busted up her arm. But she came to work, because Rachel is a freaking psychopath, and she was scared she was going to get fired. But she fired her _anyway."_

"And you defended her." Santana puts the pieces together, and Brittany nods.

"I knew what was going to happen. I _knew_ it, but I couldn't just—she's a _really_ good friend to me, and I hate when people do things that aren't _right._ David told me to help her get in her costume, and she was going to go on stage like that, but then Rachel came in, and all hell broke loose _._ What kind of person would I be if I stood there and let Rachel fire her because she was covered in blood? And I _know,_ I know, Santana, that you're going to tell me I should have watched my own ass—"

"Brittany, I'm—"

"I _know_ I should have, okay? I know that this was really, really stupid, because I have rent, and now Rachel will probably make sure I get blacklisted, and even Sugar said I was an idiot for doing that, but—"

"Brittany." Santana's voice is firm, and Brittany snaps her head up. "I would never, _ever_ kick you when you're down, and I would never, _ever_ disagree with you for standing up for what you believe is right. It's one of the things I love the most about you, you're so _good,_ so wholly good, in a way that I could only wish to be."

"You don't think I'm an idiot? You're not mad?"

"Of course I don't. And yeah, I'm _really_ mad, but not at you. Britt, you don't have a contract that protects you from this? How can she just fire _either_ of you without just cause?"

"It's _in_ my contract. I don't remember the words, but Robbie looked at it for me, since he knows about all that business kind of stuff, and it pretty much says I can be released from the contract by them without notice. He _warned_ me, but it was really good job, a _Rachel Berry_ production, and I'd been auditioning for almost a _year,_ so I didn't even care, I figured it would be fine."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Britt."

"Why are you being so _nice_ to me about this?" Brittany purses her lips. "You plan _everything._ You know what you're going to eat for breakfast three weeks from now. You're so _careful,_ and this was stupid and careless, this whole thing!"

"Hey, _stop._ Stop with the stupid thing right now, Brittany Pierce. I _love_ you, and we're going to figure this out. You're the most amazing dancer I've ever met, and as far as I can see, this Berry bitch is losing her clout with the financial disaster that her show is becoming. You're going to find something else amazing, with someone who doesn't think _this_ is okay, and until then, I'm going to help you out. How much do you—"

"No." Brittany shakes her head quickly. "Absolutely not."

"Britt—"

"No, no way." She pulls her hands away from Santana and stands up, heart dropping to her stomach. "I've been between jobs before, and I've done it without anyone paying my way."

"It's not _paying your way._ I love you, and I want to help you."

"I appreciate that, Santana, but I mean it when I say no."

"Why are you being so proud about this? We've been dating for _months,_ I have the money. You could just move in with me, and—"

"Please, _please_ tell me you didn't just do a pity ask thing."

"What?" Santana is taken aback, hurt by Brittany's assumption. "No, Britt, why not? You're here all the time anyway."

"Nuh uh, no way. I don't want you to ask me to move in with you because I lost my job. There's absolutely no way that will ever end well."

"Oh my God, Brittany, you're being so damn stubborn." Santana stands up and rises on her tiptoes, meeting Brittany's eyes. "I'm asking you to move in with me because I want to live with you."

"Tell me this." Brittany lets out a long sigh, rubbing her temples. This is the _last_ thing she wants to do right now, argue with Santana, but somehow, the idea that she's pitying her has wormed it's way into her mind, and her refusing to accept Brittany not wanting financial help is frustrating, to say the least. "Would you have asked me to move in with you tonight if I hadn't come here and told you I lost my job?"

"No, but, circumstances—"

"I don't _want_ it to be about circumstances, Santana." She softens a little, when she sees how crestfallen Santana looks. "I love you, babe, and trust me, I appreciate your offers more than you know, but I can't do it this way. I can't have you be my fallback, I can't move in with you because you want to financially support me."

"Britt, you're my _girlfriend."_ Santana pleads, and that's not a word she uses often. "I just want to take care of you."

"I know you do, and I know you mean well by this, but take care of me like my _girlfriend,_ not like my _mother_. I know you've got wine and ice cream in the kitchen, give me that, since I really don't give a damn about calories right now, cuddle with me on the couch while I feel bad for myself, kiss me, undress me slowly, tell me you love me a hundred times while you make love to me, and be my big spoon when I inevitably cry over what happened tonight, after you're done. Tell me I'm a good dancer, and you believe I'll find another job. Kick my ass next week when I'm sulking on your couch, and hold my hands while I wait to hear back on auditions, _Love_ me, Santana. _That's_ what I need from you now, not your money, not you asking me to move in with you, because you think I can't figure out how to pay my rent. Please, if you want to take care me, do _this._ I _can't_ argue with you. I need you too much right now."

"Okay." She nods slowly, opening her arms in a conciliatory gesture, and wrapping them around Brittany when she steps into them. Brittany buries her face in dark hair, and she sucks in a deep, wavering breath as she feels Santana rub slow circles on her lower back. "I'm sorry. And I just…I didn't mean to sound like I was pitying you, or that I didn't believe you could do this all yourself. I do. I believe in you so, so much. I just feel like there's a lot I can't offer you, but _this,_ it's something I can."

"You offer me so much, Santana Lopez." Brittany murmurs the words into her hair, squeezing her tighter. "This is why I came here, so you could wrap me up and tell me you believe in me."

"I do, I really do believe in you so much. And…I'm sorry I asked you to move in with me like that. When I do next time, it will be much more romantic."

"I'm never asking for romantic, just _you."_ She lifts her head and softly kisses Santana's lips. "And, when you ask me for real, and I have everything figured out, then I'll answer you for real."

"You won't tell me what you'll say?" Santana cocks her head to the side, giving a hesitant, playful smile.

"No, I won't." Her fingers reach down to lace with Santana's again, and she squeezes them. "You'll have to wait and see."

"Okay." Already flushed cheeks warm further. "For now, how about I be a good girlfriend and get you that wine and ice cream?"

"That sounds like exactly what I need."

While Santana is in the kitchen, Brittany goes through Santana's bedroom and into her bathroom. Though she's cried most of it off, Brittany can still feel the stage makeup on her face, and it feels heavier than normal. Without the distraction of arguing with Santana, the reality of what happened weighs heavy on Brittany's chest. Splashing her face with warm water, she watches beige and black and purple slip down the drain, she watches glitter streak Santana's white marble sink, and she feels like she's seeing her dream disappear in a swirl of water and the bubbles of expensive face wash. When she's finished, she looks at herself in the mirror, bare faced and puffy eyed, and she sucks in a deep breath. _You can do this. You're talented, you're vibrant, you're awesome,_ she repeats over and over to herself, her long standing mantra that got her through many a rough patch.

Emerging back into the bedroom, she slowly slips out of her leotard, and discards it with her leggings into Santana's hamper. She just needs it away from her right now, or she's going to start crying again, and when she opens _her_ drawer, she smiles to herself, seeing the too-short sweatpants of Santana's—ones she's taken to wearing when she actually _wears_ pants around Santana—on top of her own things. She slides them up her legs slowly, flexing the muscles of her calves and thighs, her _dancer legs_ , before shedding her tight bra and pulling a Wham t-shirt over her head. When she returns to the living room, Santana sits on the couch, one wineglass filled higher than normal, and the other filled barely halfway, as Santana is taking it slow reintroducing it into her life. A spoon sticks out from a new pint of Dastardly Mash, something Santana keeps in the house for when Brittany has her period, since she herself believes that _raisins don't belong in ice cream, or anything, for that matter,_ and as soon as Brittany sits down, she sinks right into Santana and takes a too-big sip of Pinot Grigio.

"Are you okay?" Santana asks, her voice soft and small. She knows the answer, of course, but still…

"Not really." She lies her head on Santana's shoulder and inhales sharply. "I can't…I can't even think about it anymore tonight. I know Rachel was awful, and the show was like, actually really bad, but I got to dance _every night,_ where people could see me. I know every little girl says that, but when I was ten, my parents had this dancer friend from Russia. She'd been a big time ballerina there, and she told me I had dancer bones. She said I was too flighty to be a classical ballerina, but she trained me anyway. My mom would put on _Don't Worry Baby,_ and I'd dance around the living room for them. I just…I'm so scared a blew my dream, Santana."

"You didn't." Santana soothes, stroking Brittany's hair, letting her fingers linger on her collarbone, where they tickle. "Maybe it'll take some time to find something else, but when you do, on your first night, I'll be sitting in the front row with flowers, and I will be the proudest girlfriend there ever was."

"You're saying _girlfriend_ a lot tonight." Brittany cocks her head, looking up at Santana, who looks down sheepishly. "I like it."

"I'm getting better." She kisses Brittany's lips, tasting the wine on them. "I know you like it."

"I like _you."_ Snuggling further into Santana, Brittany looks at the black screen of the television. "Do you mind if we watch _The Dukes of Hazzard_ or something? It's been awhile since I've had a Friday night free, I forgot about television, and I just want to do something I don't have to think about."

"Of course, Britt, but don't get too used to it, I don't think you will for very long."

Brittany stays the weekend with Santana. Truthfully, she's not ready to face telling her friends, she's not ready to face calling her family. She just wants to wallow for awhile, and Santana's is the place to do that. They don't get dressed all weekend, they're either naked or in sweats, a _first,_ Brittany thinks, for Santana, who puts on heels to pick up milk. They order takeout, they watch movies, they have wine drunken sex–well, _Brittany_ is wine drunken—and with the exception of Brittany calling Sugar to learn that she's mostly fine, just three stitches and an elbow sprain, and a few dancers she worked with in the past, asking them to let her know if they hear of anything, they stay in their own bubble. Regardless of the circumstances, it's the first weekend they've ever had to themselves, and at least _that,_ Brittany appreciates.

When Monday morning comes, and Brittany rolls over at the sound of Santana's alarm, she resists the urge to bury her head under the covers and stay cocooned in the smell of Santana all day. It's soft and warm under the covers, and it's freezing outside, but she forces herself out of bed. She throws on jeans and a sweatshirt while Santana showers for work, and she kisses her with a toothpaste mouth over the bathroom sink. It pangs her, how easy it would be to just move in here, how much she'd love having this every day. Maybe her pride is her worst enemy, she _knows_ Santana mentioned them someday moving in together back at Christmas, and her offer wasn't _entirely_ out of nowhere, but still, she _can't._

While kissing behind the front door, Santana _insists_ on dropping Brittany home in her cab. She can't really deny the offer, it's (mostly) on Santana's way to work, the temperature has dropped below zero, and if it means an extra twenty-minutes with her girlfriend before she has to go home and make the phone call she really _doesn't_ want to make, then she'll take it. With a gloved hand, Santana offers her a quick squeeze before she climbs out on graffiti littered Essex Street. She's got a work thing tonight, and Brittany knows she hates them immensely, especially since she'll be home too late for it to make sense for Brittany to come over, but she'll call her after, and Brittany will whisper into the phone while her roommates sleep, telling Santana she loves her, telling Santana she's sorry that she can't be there to make it better.

Getting up the five flights of stairs to her apartment, Brittany hears ABBA blaring from Mike and Artie's room, and she can't help but roll her eyes at the irony of _Dancing Queen_ playing, what she and Mike have teasingly called each other for years. Dropping her bag on her bed, she knocks on the door, and is beyond grateful when she remembers that Artie is out filming something, and Tina and Lauren are pitching one of their ideas— _shweaters_ , she thinks, shorts made out of old sweaters. She's loves them all (mostly), but it's Mike that she needs to talk to. It's Mike who gets it the most, and when he calls for her to come in, she flops down on his bed, snickering, as she always does, about the _Return of the Jedi_ poster on the ceiling.

"You guys are such _nerds."_

"You sound like Lauren." Mike bites back, putting his book on the desk and lying head to head with Brittany. "Harrison Ford is hot."

"Okay, he is, but the fact that you two fall asleep with him looking down on your disturbs me,"

"Don't think about it too much."

"Trust me, I try not to."

"What's the matter, Britt? Everything okay with you and Santana? Do I need to have Lauren put her in a chokehold, or have Artie run her over with his chair?"

"No, no. Santana is good. It's just…it finally happened."

"Fuck." He sighs, rolling to prop his head on his hand and look at her. He'd been the one Brittany confided in about her concerns, both about the possibility of the show closing, and her not making it to the end because Rachel snapped first. "When's the closing date?"

"Mine was Friday, me and Sugar both. I pretty much got drunk all weekend, ate a lot of carbs and had a lot of sex."

"The three cures, obviously. I won't even ask how it happened." He shakes his head, knowing, as a dancer himself, that rehashing it is the worst, and she'd most certainly had to do it with Santana over the weekend. "Did you call my brother?"

"I will today. God, Mike, I'm a _terrible_ waitress. I'm not sure he'll take me back this time, after I dropped Jonnie's entire knife block in the fryer…"

"I mean, it's a miracle Jonniedidn't _kill_ you, but you know Rob, he'll always give you a job."

"Good thing for that. Even being an awful waitress pays more than pouring coffee."

"It's true, it does. You told Santana?"

"That I got fired, yeah. But I haven't told her yet that I'm going to be a waitress. She asked me to move in with her on Friday."

" _What?_ She _did?"_

"Yeah, but I said no. She wants to pay my way until I find another part, and I'm just not about that. I swear, I was positive I was going to find twenties shoved in my pants pockets this morning."

"Your sugar momma, huh?"

"Absolutely _not."_ Brittany huffs, fiddling with the bracelet on her wrist. "Okay so she's like five years older than me, and she not only _comes from_ money, but she makes a lot, and she has this real problem with thinking she needs to spend money on me, but our relationship isn't like that at all. And I _know_ she doesn't mean to be patronizing, but it already sucks dating someone…well-off, when I'm clearly _not._ Last week she took me out for _escargot_ and this like…billion dollar champagne or something. The next day, I brought hotdogs from the guy on the corner of her block."

"I'm sure she loved every second of that hot dog."

"I mean, her barfing that night may or may not have been related, but she totally blamed it on the snails anyway."

"She's really in love with you." Mike muses, shaking his head. "Artie's probably the only person who could feed me a rotten hot dog and I'd still keep around."

"It wasn't _rotten."_ She laughs, grabbing a pillow and hitting him in the stomach. "But really, it was probably a bad idea with her ulcer, who even _knows_ what's in those things."

"Seven inches of boiled deliciousness on a bun." He licks his lips. "So you're really not going to move into her fancy Upper East Side house, with her maid, and her fancy stuff."

"Millie isn't a _maid,_ she's a housekeeper."

"Okay, same difference. Not that I'm complaining, finding a new roommate'll suck, but you're my friend first, but you're sure? It would make things a lot easier for you."

"Yeah, I'm totally sure. Not right now. It would be a lot easier, but it doesn't feel right. We love each other, and I don't want moving in together too soon, for the wrong reasons to mess things up. I'm _so_ happy with her, but I haven't been in a serious relationship in awhile, and she didn't _do_ serious relationships until now, so I just want to do it right,"

"I think that's smart of you." Mike smiles, patting her arm.

"So how are _you,_ Mike? I feel like we're hardly on the same schedule anymore."

"Not bad. My extension classes are going well, Artie and I are doing well, there's a lot of guys like me out there who have got it way worse, especially _now,_ so I can't complain."

"I'm glad you guys got together when you did." Brittany reaches down to squeeze Mike's hand, a sort of silent gratitude for something they just don't talk about.

"Yeah, Britt, trust me, me too." He sighs, pulling the pillow from his stomach and up under his head. "One of these days, we'll make it unofficially official."

"Will you?" Her jaw drops, surprised.

"We've talked about it. Who cares if it means anything to anyone but us, right? We'll get Robbie to give us the restaurant for the night, get some rings, some flowers, and a whole lot of beer."

"Now _that_ sounds like a wedding to get on board with. Do I get to bring a date?"

"I think Santana would be completely offended if you didn't." Mike chuckles. "I'll keep you posted."

"You better. I _obviously_ have a very busy calendar I'm keeping right now." She forces a laugh, though it's really not funny. "I mean, who knows, I might be one of the cater waiters at your wedding at this rate."

"I'm sure my brother will give you the night off. So what do you think, ready to call him?"

"Little while." Brittany closes her eyes. "Right now, I'm going to pretend I didn't say no to Santana's offer, and I'm laying on her couch watching soaps and eating something Millie insisted on cooking me for lunch. Let me just not be a waitress for five more minutes."

"Okay, Britt, feel free to use my bed for your non-sexual fantasies for as long as you need."


	9. Found a Real Dream Baby,When I Found You

Throughout the first half of February, Brittany's sudden change of employment, and subsequent refusal to accept _any_ help from Santana puts a bit of a strain on their relationship. More often than not, Santana finds herself frustrated with the whole of the situation. She's never been in love before, and seeing the woman she love ring her doorbell after a long shift at the restaurant bone tired—and more often than not, covered in some sort of food product that she'd spilled on herself, which Santana doesn't quite understand, given her natural grace—upsets her. This isn't Brittany tired from living her dream, this isn't Santana herself tired from dealing with incompetence at the bank, this is her exhausted and crabby simply so she has the money to pay the rent, rent that she doesn't even _have to_ pay. None of it makes sense to Santana, but for the sake of not arguing with her girlfriend, she keeps her opinions on the matter to herself.

It's the week before Valentine's Day, and much to Santana's delight—and possibly a calculated maneuver on the part of Robbie, who'd prefer to keep his candlelight diners on the occasion from taking a bath in soy sauce—Brittany is working two weeks worth of day shifts. In the three weeks that Brittany has worked as Chang's, Santana has eaten there four times, each time requesting to sit in her section, and each time, leaving a tip that's far too big for what she's ordered, tip money that she's found each time crumpled in a ball on her dresser the next morning, and that she puts back into Brittany's wallet while she's in the shower. With Brittany on days, Santana decides to step out for lunch on Tuesday, and warning Ben Israel that it's coming out of his paycheck if he does something absurd in her absence, she takes a cab up to the restaurant.

When she walks in the door, heels clicking on linoleum, Brittany catches her eye, and Santana swears, she sees a hint of irritation in her posture. Helen, the regular hostess, doesn't even wait for Santana to ask, she just grabs a menu and seats her in the corner table in Brittany's section, not saying a word as she turns away and gestures for the bus boy to fill her water glass. Santana inspects the menu carefully, nails drumming on the tablecloth, though she's ordered the same thing each time she's come in—she's a creature of habit, as it is—and she waits for Brittany to take her order.

"Fancy seeing you here." Brittany leans against the table and flips her order pad open.

"Hi." Santana beams at her, taking in how she looks in her black slacks and blouse, stained white apron around her waist, and her hair braided down her back, such a stark contrast to her usual appearance, but still just as pretty. "How are you today?"

"Well it's work, so, fantabulous." She rolls her eyes a little, not really looking into Santana's. "I've got like five tables, apparently _everyone_ wants to come for lunch today."

"Do you not want me here?" Santana bites her lip nervously.

"No, no, it's fine." Her attempts to hide her irritation are strong, and Santana closes her menu and hands it back to her. "The usual?"

"Please."

While she waits for her lunch, Santana reads over the stack of reports in the folder she'd brought with her, marking them with neat, left handed print. She tries not to keep her eyes on Brittany as she works, though she desperately wants to. Despite their conversation the night that Brittany had lost her job, Santana still feels the strong desire to take care of her, and not in the creepy, maternal way that her girlfriend had implied, but in the way she'd take care of anyone she loves, only amplified, because it's _Brittany,_ her _greatest_ love. It's not that she doesn't believe in her, not at _all._ It's the opposite, actually. She believes in her so much that she's certain she should spend her days honing her craft, she should spend her days auditioning for great parts in shows that will appreciate her extraordinary talent. And she should move in with Santana. Not just because of money, not at _all_ because of money, really, but Santana is terrible at articulating herself when it comes to feelings. She's terrible at telling Brittany that she wants to fall asleep in her arms every night, and wake up in her arms every morning. She's terrible at telling her that she gets pangs in her chest at the thought of stupid things, like mail coming addressed to Brittany, or her changing the address on her license. She's terrible at telling her that now that she's met her and learned about all the things she never knew how to want, she wants them _all,_ even the ones she knows she _can't_ have.

"Egg foo yong, white rice and a Diet 7-Up." Brittany sets the food down in front of Santana, using extra care not to drop it in her lap—since she _had_ spilled soda all over her the last time she was here. "Four-ninety-five lunch special. Twenty-dollar tip _not_ permissible."

"Britt—"

"Don't _Britt_ me." She rolls her eyes. "In the two weeks I've worked here, I've made a hundred and fifty dollars in tips, and eighty of those dollars were from _you._ I might look like an airhead when you're in here, but don't think I don't notice the money back in my wallet after I give it back."

"The gratuity reflects the impeccable service. You _know_ I'm a good tipper, Brittany."

"Santana, I spilled a soda on your brand new suit the other night. My service is terrible."

"I've never complained about you getting me wet before." Santana lowers her voice so it's inaudible to anyone but Brittany, and Brittany huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh my God, _stop._ You're being fricking ridiculous right now, and I'm feeling really disrespected."

"Britt, I'm not trying to disrespect you."

"I know you're not _trying,_ but you legit _are_. I _asked_ you to let me do this on my own, and coming here and giving me stupid tips for my shit waitressing skills is the same as you handing me money. The biggest tip I've gotten that wasn't from you was five dollars, and it was from a nasty old man who mostly checked out my ass the whole time. I _love_ you, and I shouldn't want to turn around and leave the room when I see you walk through the door."

"Brittany." Santana swallows hard, hurt by Brittany's words.

"I'm sorry, it's just…I'm working, Santana. I'm doing what I've gotta do, and I already feel like crap that I can barely get an order right. When you come in and do this, it makes me feel even "

"I really…I don't mean to do that." She struggles finding the words she wants to say.

"I _know."_ Brittany sighs. "I know this is just how you are, and your generosity, it's…I love it about you, but you already spend all this money on me, and I know you're planning a big Valentine's dinner because you're _terrible_ at keeping secrets. Just, put yourself in my shoes for one second, alright? How would _you_ feel, if I was doing all these totally ace things, and _then,_ on top of it, the money you spent on a gift for me was also bought with money _I_ had given _you."_

"You don't have to buy me anything."

"You're, like, _entirely_ missing the point, oh my God." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Look, I think I'm going to stay home tonight."

"But Britt." Santana sucks her lips into her mouth and furrows her brow, still speaking so softly. "We were going to watch _The Facts of Life,_ and take a bath…"

"I just need a little space right now, Santana. I'm not doing it to hurt you, I just…I really don't want to be mad at you, and I've gotta cool out, okay?"

"Okay." She concedes, though the sting of it resonates through her whole body. "Okay, fine."

"Santana—"

"Whatever, Britt, it's fine. I'll just go."

"Stay for lunch. I know if you leave now you won't eat." Brittany's concern for Santana's well being trumps her frustration, and subtly, she strokes the back of Santana's hand with her pointer finger.

"Just have them wrap it to go. I'll eat it in my office so you have _space."_

Santana leaves no room for negotiation, and Brittany simply nods, stepping away from the table with her order pad. The sting of Brittany's words doesn't soften, and Santana, as she does, feels anger and frustration roiling in the pit of her stomach. Her words lack, her words _constantly_ lack, and as Brittany sets the paper bag with cartons of food down on the table, Santana's insecurities lick at her. So desperately, she wants to be enough. So desperately, she wants to articulate her deep need to show her love for Brittany the best way she knows how, but instead, she chooses her pride, and she walks out of the restaurant it's scarcely another word.

Her afternoon is busy. She eats half of the egg foo yong, and steps outside to discard the rest so her office doesn't reek like it while she has an interview to do. She wants to swallow her anger, to call Brittany and apologize, but the truth is, she's not sorry for wanting to help her, she's only sorry for not being able to communicate that she's not doing it to patronize her. So she doesn't pick up the phone to leave a message at home for her. She's not going to beg her to come over to the place she should be _living_ anyway. No, she'll order takeout from the Indian place, because Brittany hates it, and she never gets to eat it anymore. She'll take a bath on her own, stretching her body in the big tub. She'll drink a half a glass of wine and watch _The Facts of Life_ on her own. And she'll wait until Brittany has had enough _space_ from her well meaning gestures.

When Terri knocks on her door to announce that her three o'clock has arrived, and makes some snide comment about how she's filed away all the papers, lest they become kindling, Santana glowers at her, not even understanding what the hell her dumb joke means. Terri, of course, is always quick to bite back, and snarks about how she must be on her period or fighting with her boyfriend—the pang of that word hitting hard in the gut—making Santana tell her to go smoke a cigarette, or drink out if the damn flask she hides in the top drawer, and mind her own business. With a roll of her eyes, she escorts the fresh faced young man in, and when Santana sees him, she swears, he curtsies a little before he reached out to shake her hand.

He not a candidate she'd consider on sight, the very green—both to New York City, and the real world as a whole—Kurt Hummel, and given her frustration with Brittany, he's the type of candidate she'd typically snark at, but there's something that changes her mind. There's something about this boy, fresh out of his finance program at the University of San Francisco, that makes her reconsider. He's young, only twenty-two, having finished his program in three-and-a-half years, and she probably could find someone far better suited, and far less doe eyed for the job, but she doesn't. She seems something in him, something beyond the sympathy she feels for his obvious gayness, which he'll never be able to hide from prospective employers, and with things as they are now, a mark that will hold him back—and God, Santana thanks her lucky stars that she doesn't have markers like that, at least, she _thinks_ she doesn't. Santana sees something in him, and when he proves his financial prowess in her interview questions, she offers him the job on the spot, hoping she doesn't regret her decision.

She works late. Work is a distraction from thinking about how Brittany had told her she needed space, it's a distraction from Brittany telling her that she makes her feel like crap, it's a distraction from the bubbling pit of anger and embarrassment and guilt that roils low in her belly. Numbers calm her, as does the two puffs of the cigar she smokes when she closes her office door at four o'clock, and when she leaves, hailing a cab on the icy night, she tries to hang onto that small sense of peace.

It doesn't last long. When she gets home, she mopes. She'd thought she'd be followed not far behind by Brittany, and now she's alone. She's alone in her big stupid house, she's alone with the money that she keeps trying to push on Brittany. She's alone, and though she'd been this way for a long time before, alone now feels less comforting and more _lonely,_ and she hates every minute of it. She looks at the silent phone, and she doesn't pick it up, not again, after she orders her Indian food and takes a half-full bottle of wine out of the refrigerator to fill her glass. She doesn't pick up the phone, because doesn't think that's giving Brittany space, though she hates how it doesn't ring. She hates it all through her lonely dinner. She hates it in her second glass of wine, after she swallows the pills for her stomach, as if the combination will help the twisting knots. She hates it as she soaks in the tub, her hand between her legs in a futile attempt to distract herself. And she hates it as she dresses in pajamas and thick socks, before pouring a _third_ glass of wine, finishing the bottle, and settling in front of the television, wishing, now that she'd gotten Brittany into the show, that she was there to cuddle close to her and continue convincing her that there's _totally_ something going on between Jo and Blair.

At ten-thirty-two, the phone finally rings. Santana jumps to get it, though she's certain it's Mercedes, or, if she's really unlucky, her mother. She holds the receiver to her ear, and though she tries to sound breezy, in case it _is_ Brittany, she hears her own eagerness in every breath,

"Hello?"

 _Hey._ Brittany speaks low on the other end, and Santana's heart hammers in her chest,

"Hi."

 _Hi._ There's a pause after the fourth greeting, and Santana twirls the cord with her forefinger. _What are you doing?_

"Watching the Olympics. Speed skating is on, or something, what about you?"

 _Just kind of vegging here. Lauren has…I don't know, a_ thing _tomorrow, so she's demanding complete silence, and I can't watch TV. I missed our show, but I didn't want to go to bed without talking to you._

"Oh." Santana bites her lip. She's unsure what to say, the conversation feels uneasy, and the bubbling begins in her belly again.

 _Santana, I…I'm sorry I got mad at you in the restaurant._

"It's whatever, it's fine."

 _It's not, and also, you don't really sound like it's fine._

"Well you need your space, so I'm giving it to you. I ordered from Taj Mahal and I took a bath. Now I'm having some wine."

 _You sound a little…drunk?_

"I'm fine." Santana asserts, and then she sniffles a little. She _hates_ that she gets weepy and emotional when she drinks, and she hates that her little tiff with Brittany is making her even more so. "I'm just tired."

 _Santana…_ Brittany sighs a little. _Are you crying?_

"No, I'm fine. I'm just relaxing and…not making anyone feel like crap tonight."

 _I'm sorry that I said that._

"But it's true, isn't it."

 _That wasn't the right way to put it. It's not you, it's just, I don't know, Santana, it's really hard for me right now. I love seeing you, you_ know _I love seeing you, but then having that attached to you giving me money, or_ tipping _me, or whatever, made me_ not _want to, and_ that _made me feel like crap, because I love you._

"I hate it Brittany." Santana wipes her tears with the heels of her hands, but more spring up in their wake. "I hate that you're working your ass off for tips, and what? I come up here and sit on my expensive couch and drink my expensive wine and just…you're downtown when I'd rather you be here. I want to share what I have with you, I don't get why it's making you so mad."

 _It's making me mad, because even my_ friends _jokingly call you my sugar mama, and because I know_ you _can't tell me that Mercedes, and maybe your cousin too, worry about whether I'm after you for your money. It's making me mad, because a relationship is about equal partnership, and I can't feel like I'm your equal partner when I struggle to pay my rent, and the only reason I_ don't _feel stressed about that, and about giving you a Valentine's Day gift that you deserve, is because of the tips_ you _gave me. It's making me mad, because I_ know _that you're doing what you're doing because you love me, and I still can't help but resent this helpless role._

"But you're _not."_ Santana takes a deep breath, trying to keep a stupid wine induced sob from hiccuping out. "You're not helpless at all. It's just stupid _money,_ Brittany. I don't care about it at all."

 _You're a_ banker _, Santana, that sounds ridiculous._

"I'm not a _banker_ with you. And you're not an unemployed dancer, or a waitress, or any of that. You're just you and I'm just me, and with _you,_ I don't care about money. With _you,_ I don't go to nice restaurants to show off. I go, because maybe they have a soup that I think you might love, or maybe I think you'll think the ambiance is cool, or maybe because that's how I know how to treat you well!" Santana's voice raises, and she fists the fabric of her pants. "And maybe it really _bothers_ me how you think everything I try to do now is some kind of patronizing move, _maybe_ it really makes me crazy that I tip you in the restaurant because what kind of girlfriend would I be sitting here sipping wine that costs more than you _make_ and just being okay with that?"

 _Sant—_

"I'm not done." The wine has loosened her tongue, and Santana surprises herself with how much comes out. "I _never_ regretted being well off financially until you came along. I never felt bad about having money until you wouldn't let me share it with you. If it wasn't like this, you wouldn't think I was treating you like a charity case by asking you to move into my crappy one bedroom apartment. You're making me absolutely insane, because now that I said it, I wish every time that you leave that you didn't have to, and whether you had zero dollars or a million dollars, I'd still be wishing that you'd said yes and moved in with me. I was never making this about money until _you_ did, and if you want to talk about making people feel like crap, I really feel like crap that you even _think_ that, and I feel like crap that I'm sitting here by myself when I could be with _you,_ because you're mad at me."

There's a long pause on both ends of the line, and Santana wipes her face again and takes another sip of her wine before she opens her mouth to speak again. "Okay, I'm done."

 _I'm sorry, Santana. I didn't realize I was making you feel like that._

"I know you didn't. I just…I don't know what to do. I can't be sorry for wanting to share everything I have with you, but I _am_ sorry that you feel like crap because of it."

 _I think…_ Brittany hums on the other end of the line, the noise she makes when she's thinking intently. _I think we need to come up with some sort of compromise about this._

"Like what kind of compromise?"

 _I don't know. I haven't gotten that far in my head yet. Like, I understand what you're saying, I_ do, _babe, but it's always going to make me crazy if you come into the restaurant and give me twenty dollar tips._

"I mean, in fairness to me, giving you twenty dollar tips at Robbie's is better than me leaving twenty-dollar bills on the nightstand."

 _Not funny._ Santana can hear the roll of Brittany's eyes, though she follows it with a laugh.

"It's a _little_ funny. Fine, I won't come into the restaurant, if that makes you feel better."

 _That's not what I'm asking. I actually_ like _when you come in. I know that you're not going to yell at me if I spill food in your lap, or, like, ask what the deal with your hair is._

"Britt! You didn't!"

 _Okay the guy had fricking butt ugly hair, and this hideous suit, which totally looked_ better _with the Hunan beef on the pants, and I was in a bad mood because we were mad at each other. Robbie was pretty mad at me, I guess the guy's like super rich or something, and also a gigantic jerk._ And, _in my defense, it was a really bad idea having me wait on him, but Helen didn't know who he was either, and she thought his hair was fugly too. I have to find out what his name is, I bet_ you _know who he is._

"Gee, thanks."

 _No, I mean because you read the business section of the paper, not because you have bad hair or ugly suits. You_ know _I love_ your _suits and_ your _hair. That one today, is it new? I've never seen it, and mad at you or not, your ass looked fantastic._

"Thanks, Brittany." Santana laughs, so appreciative of the fact that they're talking normal too each other.

 _Anyway, sorry, I got distracted. I think…I'd like you to come in, but you can't tip me like that._

"This doesn't really sound like a compromise." She furrows her brow and massages her temples, not feeling like she got her point across.

 _I'm not finished yet. I think, I'd like to consider your offer…the one where you asked me to move in with you._

"Don't make it sound like a _business decision, baby_."

 _I'm sorry, it's not. It's a really huge thing, and like, a major step in our relationship, but I'm going to really think about it, make sure I'm_ there, _okay? I'm hearing you, that you're not doing it to patronize me, and I_ do _want to live with you. Just give me a little time to figure it all out, okay?_

"You can have all the time in the world, Britt, my home isn't going anywhere, and I'm not going to change my mind about wanting that. Will I see you tomorrow?"

 _You better._ Santana hears the playful teasing in her voice. _I'll come by after work, and since you_ love _the food from work so much, I'll be sure to bring dinner._

"I love you, sleep well, and good luck with Lauren."

 _Thank you, babe. I love you too._

For the next four days, Santana is graced with Brittany's presence after work. The tension between them seems to have dissolved, now that they've come to a sort of mutual understanding, though Brittany has yet to give Santana an answer, or even any sort of indication that she's still considering the offer to move in. But Santana doesn't push. She doesn't want to put any pressure on her to make such a big decision, so she just waits. She puts her effort into showing Kurt Hummel the ropes, and when the weekend comes, she puts an even greater effort into revamping her Valentine's Day plans, after an agreement that they wouldn't buy gifts for each other, in hopes of really proving to Brittany through action that she means exactly what she'd said.

When the fourteenth rolls around, Santana, for the first time in her life, leaves work almost an hour early. Of course, she's subjected to snide comments about her _hot date,_ and questions of who the _lucky guy_ is (and some _worse_ discussion of castration and her keeping someone's balls in her back pocket). She just breathes deeply and she ignores them, despite the visceral reaction her body has to them _ever_ knowing who she's really spending the evening with, despite the ideas of rumors that could cost her the career she's built. But it's Brittany, this great big love she's found, and it's their first Valentine's Day together, _her_ first Valentine's Day with anyone, and she's not going to let the idiots who work for her ruin that with their small-brained gossip.

She goes home immediately, knowing she'll have a lot to deal with in the morning, and she sheds her heels and her suit jacket so she can get the house (and herself) ready. Not wasting any time, because she has a delivery coming at six, Santana takes her dress out of the closet, and she gets in the shower. By the time she's stepped out, she has exfoliated every square inch of her body, and her legs are smooth as silk. Her hair and her makeup, she takes her time with, pinning up a mess of curls, and swiping deep red across her lips. The lingerie she wears, it's new, and red as her lips, right down to the clips that hold her garters, but over it, she's dressed in demure black, with smoky eyes to match. When she's satisfied with how she looks, stopping only for a moment, when she imagines teeth dragging down the collarbone her dress leaves exposed, Santana slides into a pair of her red bottomed heels and pads into the living room.

Taking out every candle she owns, Santana lights them, and then attempts a fire in the never used wood burning stove, silently begging the universe to keep it from exploding as she tosses the wood she'd asked Millie—who'd worn a comical face of disbelief—to arrange a delivery for. By the time she's finished with that, and sets a silver bucket of ice for the champagne on the blanket she's spread out in the floor, the doorbell rings, and Santana takes another breath, and signs for the delivery from Zabar's. She sets the food in the oven to keep warm, and pulls out record after record, before deciding on _The Songstress_ one of her new favorites, and sinking down on the couch to wait for Brittany.

It's just before seven when Brittany arrives, and Santana opens the door to a flurry of snow that hadn't been there a half an hour earlier. Brittany's cheeks and nose are chapped red, but the way she smiles when she sees Santana seems to warm the the whole winter. She steps through the doorway, and before she even sheds her coat, she holds out a bouquet of peonies for Santana, who beams as she does.

"Brittany." She smiles softly, shyly, almost, because a girl who brings her flowers…it just gives her butterflies.

"Robbie was putting them on all the tables tonight, and I thought of you."

"He let you take them?"

"My reward for not breaking any dishes today." Brittany shrugs sheepishly, then sets the flowers down so her can put her arms around Santana and pull her close, snowflakes still melting on her cheeks and eyelids. She kisses her, and murmurs her words into her mouth. "Happy Valentine's Day. You look gorgeous, babe. Guess we're going somewhere fancy?"

"I guess you can say that." Santana shrugs, a wry smile forming on the corners of her mouth. "Take off your coat and come inside."

Brittany, getting a little better about Santana's penchant for having everything in its place, hangs her coat in the closet and leaves her shoes by the door, before following into the living room. When she gasps at the dimmed lights and the array of candles, Santana sucks her lips into her mouth, thinking _maybe_ her idea of skipping the nonsense of going out—more than because she had thought it might make Brittany feel more comfortable about the money situation, but also, because she wants to be able to show uncensored affection to her all evening—was a good one. Brittany, in a hot pink dress that hugs her body and dangling heart earrings, just cocks her head to the side, before shaking it and lowering her eyelids, this thing she seems to do when Santana's whole _everything_ is too much for her to handle.

"You made us a picnic."

"Well…" Santana takes her plump lower lip between her teeth. "If I'd _made_ the picnic, we'd be having eggs for dinner, but I _did_ set it up."

"Eggs would have been fine." She laughs. "I've given up on trying to figure out what food goes with what meal, the whole thing was already too confusing, and then there's eggs in, like, _everything_ at the restaurant, so…"

"I wanted it to be a little more special than my totally awesome scrambled eggs, but I thought we could stay in tonight, so I cancelled our reservations, I hope you don't mind,"

"I love you, so much." Brittany beams, pulling Santana to her again, fingers creeping along the hem of her dress. "I never thought I'd see the day that you were down with eating on the _floor,_ but this is perfect. I'd totally rather have you all to myself tonight."

With Santana ushering her to sit, Brittany does, folding her legs so the dress she's wearing rides up her thighs. Leaving her there, Santana goes to the kitchen, and when she returns, she holds a vase for the flowers, a platter of fruit and cheese, and under her arm, a bottle of champagne. She smiles at the way Brittany looks at her, bliss filling every cell of her body, and she sets the plate on the floor, before popping the cork and filling two glasses with bubbly liquid.

"To you and me." She looks into crystal blue eyes, handing the second glass to Brittany, and clinking it with her own. "To more than Valentine's Day, to finding someone who loves me with all my flaws and my idiosyncrasies, and who's taught me how to love in you return. To you, Britt, the light of my life, the _love_ of my life."

"Jeeze, babe." Brittany tries to laugh, though Anita Baker crooning _Hold me near, hold me tight, only you can make it real, only you make it all right_ does little to quell the intensity of her emotions about Santana looking at her in that way she does. "You didn't tell me to pack tissues."

"I'm sorry, it's just been…a dumb few weeks, and I don't like us arguing, so I want you to know how much I love you."

"I do know, and I love you that much too." Brittany promises, squeezing Santana's stocking clad thigh. In that moment, Santana half expects for Brittany to give her an answer about this _thing_ between them, but she doesn't. She simply brings her champagne to pink lips and wrinkles her nose as the bubbles hit her—she's acquiring a taste for it, but she'd never really had much of it before Santana—and smiles against the flute as Santana drinks hers too. "Alright, let's eat, because I've got like, super sexy plans for you later."

They're quiet as they eat the fruit and cheese, Brittany insisting upon feeding the grapes to Santana— _"duh, like the goddess you are, babe"_ —and Santana fretting in the kitchen over possibly drying out the lamb she'd ordered by leaving it to stay warm in the oven for too long. But it's perfect for Brittany, and she tells Santana as much a dozen or so times. It's perfect for her, because it shows her that (despite the fact that it _probably_ cost just as much money as a night out) Santana is listening to her about not needing extravagant things, no matter how much the other woman thinks she deserves them. It's about her really _getting_ that Brittany hates this weird financial dynamic, and is making a conscious effort for it not to feel that way for her. Brittany feels such a swell of love towards her for this, and by the time they finish the chocolate mousse, and Brittany swipes her tongue over Santana's lip to catch a stray dollop of whipped cream, she can't help but pull her up so she's straddling her lap.

It doesn't take long for Santana to feel breathless, not when her prediction about Brittany's teeth on her exposed collarbone comes true almost immediately, not when eager hands tug at the top of her dress, eager to get a glimpse of her lingerie, not when lips attach themselves to the top of her breast, sucking, marking her where no one else can see, until she can't suppress the moan in her throat. This over the clothes foreplay, it's something that Brittany has mastered, and until she'd met this woman, Santana had never imagined coming without any sort of physical stimulation between her legs, and even more so, had never imagined orgasming that way without feeling mortification and shame over her _performance_. But with Brittany, it's different. With Brittany, she can weave her hands through blonde locks and look into hungry blue eyes teasing her nipples through red lace, she can writhe and moan, watching Brittany slip long fingers into her own panties and pleasure herself while she kisses Santana and whimpers into her mouth. With Brittany, she can come from very little, and then pull Brittany's fingers from her own sex and hike her dress up to replace them with her mouth without feeling filthy.

Santana lies flat on her stomach, dishes left forgotten and tiny heart dotted panties only as far down as Brittany's knees. Every ounce of propriety and composure that she strives so hard to keep throughout her work day is long gone, and she's left with tangled hair and swollen lips as short nails rake her upper back, begging for more of what her mouth is offering. She loves making Brittany writhe, she loves every breathy utterance of _fuck, Santana, don't stop_ —the _Santana_ of it, in particular—she loves knowing that in the moments where she's between her legs, lips wrapped around a sensitive bundle of nerves, and fingers sliding in and out of tight heat, that there's nothing Brittany needs that Santana can't give.

"Take your clothes off." Brittany rasps, tremors wracking her body. "And come up here."

Knowing exactly what it is Brittany wants, a shiver rubbed through Santana's body, and she sits up to pull her dress over her head, revealing in full the temptress-like set that's beneath it. Brittany swallows hard at the sight of Santana kneeling before her in red, the bruise from her lips blooming at the top of her breast. In response, Santana feels a smirk play on her lips, and though she's desperate for another release, she takes her time removing the remaining barriers. When she remains in only her thigh-highs, she kneels over Brittany, bending to kiss her lips before moving her lower half upward. Fingertips press into the smooth skin of her ass, and she feels a wanton moan building and releasing at just the thought of what's to come.

When Brittany's breath is hot against her center, Santana looks down, finding hungry blue eyes and the swipe of a tongue over pink lips. Before she lowers herself, Santana waits for Brittany's direction, and a small smile—more full of love than anything else, even in that moment, _especially_ in that moment—and guiding hands bring her down to an eager mouth. She lets go like this, she always does, despite her initial hesitation the first time Brittany breathed the words _I want you to sit on my face_ into her ear, in the midst of a heavy make out session in the couch, and she's unabashed, throwing her head back and crying out Brittany's name as one hand palms her own breast, and the other rakes through ebony hair.

As she pleasures her, Brittany doesn't take her eyes off Santana. She could drown in this and never be more fulfilled, her scent, her taste, the spasms and jumps against her tongue, the tightening of warm thighs against her ears, shutting out everything but the ethereal woman above her. When her orgasm hits her, Santana's eyes roll back, and she can scarcely hold herself up, starfished hands searching blindly for something to grasp onto, before Brittany's catch her waist, holding her steady and guiding her onto her back, snatching a cashmere blanket to wrap around them both.

Mustering the strength to prop her head on her hand, Santana turns in her side, finding Brittany's eyes, flickering bright in the candlelight. She kisses her then, soft and sweet, full of more words, the words she doesn't know how to speak. Finding a loose strand of blonde hair, Santana tucks it behind Brittany's ear, and she just takes her in, still mostly clothed, cheeks damp Santana's arousal, and this adoring sort of smile that she thinks maybe Brittany only has for her. They lie there awhile, not speaking, just being, no tension between them, no stress of the outside world getting into their bubble on the living room floor. Santana is nearly thirty years old, and yet, she feels younger than she even has in these quiet moments, she feels like without the weights she carries all day long, she's finally getting her chance to have each and every thing that she never allowed herself to want. They're the best moments for her, even sprawled out on the floor, and she thinks she'd spend the night just like this, if the twinge in her knee didn't remind her that she walks in heels on hard tile floors all day, and if she doesn't want to spend tomorrow struggling to walk properly—and be subject to the snickers and gossip behind her back that she's finally _getting dick_ —they should move their party to the bedroom.

Knowing Santana as she does, when they finally break from their reverie, Brittany starts gathering the remnants of their dinner as soon as she stands, and her girl smiles appreciatively at the gesture. Wrapped in only the blanket, Santana makes her way to the kitchen, and she's quiet, contemplative, as she takes the plates from Brittany, and she loads them carefully in the dishwasher. She gets like this after sex, she always does, though she's yet to pinpoint quite why. Brittany gives her space, each time, be it simply emotional, or actually physical like now, and it's doesn't go unappreciated, whether she speaks the words aloud or not. She stays like this as she finishes up in the kitchen, as Brittany blows out the candles, as they dress for bed—Brittany, as always, in just a kitschy long t-shirt, and never underwear, such a contrast to Santana's silk sets— and even as they stand side by side at the bathroom sink, washing off makeup and brushing teeth. It's not until they're beneath the covers, Santana in the glasses that she's finally revealed to Brittany, looking at her calendar for the morning, that Brittany chances to speak again.

"I really like this." She says quietly, fingers tickling Santana's right arm which lies atop the covers.

"Hmm?" Santana closes the calendar and sets it on the nightstand, before she rolls on her side to face her Brittany.

"I dunno, the not-sex stuff." Dark eyes crinkle in confusion at Brittany's words, and she shakes her head. "I mean, obviously I'm a _mega_ fan of the sex stuff. But I mean, I like this too, all of it, and not even just the today stuff. Like, having shows we watch together, and doing the dishes, and watching you with your cute glasses on in bed, mentally planning your workday for tomorrow. I like brushing my teeth with you and waking up with you, and digging through your drawers for socks and finding that some of _my_ socks have ended up in your drawer. I like _being_ here. No. I _love_ being here, and I can be stubborn for another however long it takes me to land a role, but I guess really, I'm just missing out on these really awesome things. And I talked to my roommates this week about finding someone to take my place…"

"So you…"

"Ask me for real this time, when we're not fighting or being stressed out or anything. You said you wanted to do it romantically, and we're in our pajamas in bed together on Valentine's Day, after your super amazing picnic and mind blowing sex. That's as romantic as it can get."

"Britt." She laughs, then realizes that Brittany is entirely serious, throwing off, once again, her planning nature. "Okay. Alright fine. Would you like to move in with me?"

"So formal. Hmm, let me think about it." Her fingertip taps her chin, as if she's considering, and Santana rolls her eyes. "Okay, sure, I think I'd like that a lot."

"Yeah?" Santana's mouth spreads into a wide smile.

"I do." Brittany's face matches, before she turns serious. "Just one thing, and I don't want to fight about it, okay?"

"Okay." She's hesitant, but Brittany presses a hand to her cheek and thumbs the creases around her left eye, soothing her worries.

"I know, obviously, that I can never afford to _really_ pay for anything significant here, but, I want to kick in what I can. I _need_ you to let me do that."

"That's fair." Santana concedes. "But I don't want you to give up your dreams because you're worried about giving more than you can afford, okay? That's the most important thing to me, and I think it's a fair compromise."

"I can agree to that. We're getting good at this compromising thing, aren't we?"

"We are." She presses a kiss to Santana's lips, and Santana smiles into it, thinking of how this will be an every night occurrence in the very near future.

"It's a good thing too, _roomie."_

"That's the weirdest word I've ever loved the sound of."

"Oh yeah, _roomie?_ Want me to say it again."

"Please." Santana laughs, breathless, as Brittany pulls her into her little spoon position and kisses the side of her neck.

"Alright, _roomie,_ I'll tell you again and again, for as long as you want."

 _Oct 24, 2015 12:44 pm_


	10. When the World Outside's Too Much To Tak

In the few weeks following Brittany's acceptance of Santana's offer for her to move in, Brittany sets to work tying up the loose ends in her current apartment. She sits with Artie and Tina as they interview prospective new roommates—and admittedly, as excited as she is to move in officially with Santana, she feels a small pang of nostalgia as she looks at the girls who sit across the table from them, girls like her when she first moved in, looking to find their dream, looking for a "family," of sorts, while they realize it—she begins packing her things, and she goes on two auditions, neither of which, she gets, but she's comforted by her girlfriend in what's soon to be _their_ bed both times, and she's reassured that she _will,_ when the right one comes along.

The night before she's finally set to move, Brittany rides her bike up to her new home, and at Santana's insistence, she parks it in the small alley between her house and the one next door, covering it carefully to protect it from any falling snow. They spend that last night apart, Santana working on a big project from the home office, and Brittany having a few final things to get together for the move. Artie and Mike offer to help her with her dozen or so boxes, and Tina, being Tina, tags along in the van that they'd borrowed from Robbie to get everything uptown. It's strange how final it feels for Brittany, watching Kitty, the new girl, set her boxes down on the floor beside what used to be Brittany's bunk, it's strange to know that she'll be the one caught up in Tina and Lauren's crafting, or helping to move a passed out Mike to his bedroom, or filling her place at the breakfast table on the rare Saturday when all of them are home. It's final, and it's nostalgic, but the idea of the beautiful girl waiting uptown for her, the girl she loves, and who loves her in return, is the soothing balm to the sting of an era ending for her. Her dreams may still be in progress, but she's found love in this great big city, and maybe that's the most important thing of all.

Once all of her things are loaded on to the van, and she sits in the back with Artie, who's locked his wheels, and holds onto a strap for extra precaution, they head uptown. It's the first time any of her friends have been to Santana's—no, to _their—_ house, and admittedly, she's a little nervous about her gaggle of friends in a place that's so clean and white. They're not _dirty,_ by any means, despite the fact that they leave their dishes in the sink a day too long, or sometimes use magazines as pizza plates, but Santana, her meticulous Santana, is maybe just a little anal retentive, and she doesn't want their first day living together to be a complete shock to the system for her.

"What'sa matter, Britt?" Artie asks, noticing her furrowed brow. "Having second thoughts about leaving us to become an uptown girl?"

"About the uptown girl thing _maybe."_ She jokes, snapping out of her own head. "Not about moving in with Santana. That's like, the best thing ever. Gonna miss me?"

"I _guess."_ He teases her. "Who's gonna do laundry with me, now that you've got a _housekeeper_ to do yours for you?"

"Correction, _Santana_ has a housekeeper. I kinda think it's weird for someone else to wash my underwear."

"You think it's weird for someone to _wash_ your underwear, but you _wore_ Tina's once?"

"Okay, you promised you'd never talk about that again. It was totally an emergency, I had my unlucky underwear on, and we were already in midtown for my audition!"

"Are you talking about the stupid underwear thing again?" Tina yells back from the front seat. "It was two years ago, and you weren't the one dealing with a superstitious Brittany freakout, okay? You would've done the same thing!"

"Whatever, T, I'm just saying it's not more weird for Britt to let someone wash her underwear than to swap with you."

"Ugh, you're so _lucky._ " She groans. "I wish someone would wash _my_ underwear."

"Can we just stop talking about who's washing my underwear?"

"Okay, so then let's talk about how you're moving from a bunk bed in our crappy apartment to an actual mansion."

"Let's not and say we did." Brittany clicks her tongue in irritation. "Can you guys just please not be total freaks about this when you're there? There's a _reason_ I prayed to like, every god I could think of that Lauren didn't come."

"Embarrassed about becoming lady of the manor?" Artie leans over to poke her arm and she lets out a deep sigh.

"Guys, quit it." Mike reprimands from the driver's seat, recalling his conversation with Brittany weeks ago. "Or I'll pull this car over and Tina, you can push Artie home."

"Okay, _dad."_ Tina rolls her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Babe—"

"Don't _babe_ me, _Arthur._ You, of all people, know that it's a big deal to move in with someone, don't bust her balls when she's nervous."

"I'm not _nervous."_ Brittany lies. "Just everyone quit acting like I'm going to change because I'm moving up there, and like Santana's money is mine or something, because it's not. I work at a fricking Chinese restaurant, alright? Millie probably gets paid more that _I_ do. Can we just be _quiet_ for the rest of the way?"

Unwilling to suffer the wrath of a stressed out Brittany, they comply with her request, and she contemplates in silence for the duration of their trip. It feels like a growing up of sorts for her, this day, and the idea that at twenty-three years old, she's found the person that she's pretty sure she'll spend the rest of her life with, someone who's older and infinitely more put together than she'll probably ever be. Brittany, in a van full of her old—and oftentimes directionless—roommates, is still feeling quite directionless herself, after the loss of her job, but now, she's got this stability, this anchor, in the woman she loves, and it's a strange feeling, good strange, but strange nonetheless.

When they finally arrive in front of Santana's—no, _their—_ house, Mike gets out and opens the back door for Brittany, and to help Artie down. Brittany is quick to jump out, and careful of the March slush on the sidewalk. Though she has a set of keys, ones Santana had given to her on a silver Tiffany key ring, and engraved with the letter _B,_ something Brittany had rolled her eyes playfully about, before kissing Santana silly, she knocks first, before sliding them into the lock. By the time she gets the door open, Santana is right behind it, smiling at Brittany in super casual jeans and a cashmere sweater, her dark curls tied up in a bandana.

"Hey, roomie." Brown eyes crinkle in soft adoration, and Brittany can't tear her eyes away from the utter _sex appeal_ that is Santana in those frame hugging jeans. The urge she feels to plant a kiss on soft lips is strong, but she can't, not right here, not where the whole neighborhood can see, so instead, she just grins and waggles her eyebrows. "Do you have a lot of stuff?"

"I mean, not really." She shrugs as Santana waves at her friends. "Just, like, a bunch of boxes, a lamp and a chair. The rest of the furniture came with the place, so Kitty totally already took over my digs."

"Well." Santana wrings her hands in front of her as casts her eyes down in the cute way she does. "I've cleared some new _digs_ for you. If they want to start bringing things in, I can show you."

"Does it mean I can kiss you while you show me?"

"I'd be really offended if you didn't." She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, and Brittany cocks her head over her shoulder.

"Guys, I'll be right back." Brittany calls back, and narrows her eyes at Artie before he can wolf-whistle. "Just start piling stuff in the entryway, until I have a better idea where to put it."

" _We're_ hauling your seven hundred boxes?" Tina groans. "Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you're nosy and couldn't wait until I invited you over like a civilized person."

"No can do, that'd be a billion years, because you're so sprung on—" Mike's elbow under Tina's ribs cuts off her sentence. "Ow!"

"We got this, Britt."

"Thank you." Santana nods in his direction, though her cheeks are warm. "I picked up some beer, it's in the fridge, and pizza's on me later."

"Sweet! Pepperoni?" Artie grabs a box from Mike and taps the top of it for him to put another one there.

"Whatever you want." Santana laughs, beaming a little at the adoring look on Brittany's face. "Thanks for helping, all of you. We'll be right back."

Without another word, Santana leads Brittany back to the bedroom, and Brittany doesn't hesitate to kick the door closed behind her and step close to Santana. Burying her hands in Santana's back pockets, she pulls her close and kisses a waiting mouth, slipping her tongue inside and breathing in her girlfriend in the bedroom they now share.

"Hi." She smiles when she pulls back, rubbing Santana's nose. "These jeans, babe. Are you trying to get me to jump your bones in front of all my friends?"

"Britt." Santana shakes her head laughing. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you." Brittany feels her bubbles of anxiety breaking up in Santana's presence, in her—no, _their_ —bedroom. "Also, you know I've _seen_ my new digs, right?"

"Not all of them, c'mere." With another quick peck to Brittany's lips, Santana leads her over to the closet, revealing that the once over-filled walk-in has been half emptied out, and a dresser that matches the one Santana already had sits beside it, the clothes Brittany had once stashed in _her_ drawer sitting on top of it.

"Santana, you didn't have to do this. I don't even have that much stuff, I could have just stuck it in the guest room. I know you have way more than enough closets in this place."

"I know you could have, but I didn't _want_ you too. I put all my offseason stuff in the guest room closet. This is _our_ bedroom, not just mine, and I mean it, Britt, I want you to feel at home here, because it _is_ your home now, with me."

"I love the sound of that." She gives a contented smile. "But what about…are you sure, Santana?"

"I'm sure, Britt." Santana smiles to herself, and Brittany does the same in response. "Wow, I've been really psyched about it all week, and now you're here with all of your stuff. And I know what you were checking on, and _God,_ it makes me love you even more. But Millie knows, at least I think she does. She must. I told her you were moving in. I didn't tell her you were _crashing,_ or _staying here._ I told her you were moving in, mostly so she wouldn't come across it by surprise, and she didn't say much about it at all, except that she left us a casserole for dinner tonight, and some chocolate chip cookies, because she knows they're your favorite. Like I told you last month, in these four walls, it's you and me."

"You." Brittany leans in, pressing her lips to the shell of Santana's ear. "Are making it _really_ hard for me not to throw you down on this bed and have my way with you right now."

"Your friends are right in the next room, baby." She wraps her leg around Brittany's waist and bites down on her pouting bottom lip.

"That's all that's keeping me from it, but I'm going to be a space cadet all day thinking of how lucky you're gonna get later."

"Hmm, is that so? 'Cuz I think I'm pretty lucky already."

"Stop. Out." Pointing to the door, Brittany walks toward it. "You're to cute and I have no self-control."

"So then I should wait until we're alone to show you your surprise then?"

"If it's going to make me tear off your jeans, then yes, you better."

"Okay, horndog." She presses her tongue between her teeth and giggles. "Save the ripping off of the jeans for at _least_ this afternoon."

Tapping Brittany's ass as she opens the door, Santana follows her out of the bedroom, to where Mike is still carrying boxes, but Artie and Tina have abandoned their task in favor of nosing about the living room, scoping out where their friend will be living—or, more likely, assessing Santana's wealth. Artie rolls back and forth on the carpet, having wiped his wheels, it seems, much to Brittany's relief, not wanting him to muddy up the carpet and make Santana's head explode.

"Look at this though, Artie." Tina apparently neglects to notice that Brittany and Santana are back in the room. "She's got a VCR. A _VCR._ This thing is the shiz nitz. I haven't dated women in awhile, but for this chick, I'm down. Think I've got a shot?"

"T, just like you're incapable of dating men who aren't homos, you're incapable of dating woman who aren't psychos. Do I need to remind you of cheerleader chick who got a Davy Jones tattoo and tried to steal a baby? Now move over, lemme see. Brittany better hook her Atari to this TV, it's like forty-two inches."

"I'm telling you right now, Artie, my fingers are capable of things—"

"I don't give a damn what your fingers are capable of. Woman, please, I'm busy here!"

"Making yourselves at home?" Santana announces their presence, and Tina jumps back in surprise.

"We were just…uh…admiring the digs." She stutters, a real one, from her nerves.

"Mhmm." Santana looks over to Brittany, who just shakes her head.

"FYI, Tina, you kinda sound like a dick when you're making plans to steal my girlfriend."

"Not to mention, sorry, you're pretty and all, but you're not my type, and _besides…"_ She trails off, always embarrassed when she talks about her feelings out loud, and particularly in front of people she doesn't know, and who are talking about performing sex acts on her. In response, Brittany puts an arm around her waist and pulls her close, avoiding pressing the kiss she wants to her temple so she doesn't embarrass her further.

"Just step off, Cohen-Chang, or I won't ever invite you over to watch it. And I thought you were helping Mike."

"Psht." Mike huffs, dropping another box in the entryway. "One box each."

"Useless." Brittany rolls her eyes. "Sorry, I'm here now. I can do the rest."

"Did you write on the boxes, ba—Brittany?"

"I didn't." She purses her lips. "Why?"

"So I can sort them into rooms." Santana cocks her head to the side, not quite used to Brittany's disarray.

"Oh…yeah. I didn't really pack them like that. But you can open them if you feel like it."

"I'm not going to go through your stuff…"

"Babe, I've got no secrets from you. You're gonna see it all anyway, and you know I don't care where it ends up. Just, like, you know, tell me and stuff so I don't end up going commando because you're at work and I can't find my underwear."

"I think I can manage that." Santana shakes off the image of Brittany sans underwear, and lifts the package opener from her office that she'd laid on the entryway table, eager to get to work, eager to create some semblance of order in the cluttered hallway that _definitely_ overwhelms her.

When Brittany goes outside, deftly slipping her sneakers on and off each time she reappears in the entryway—something she'd never imagined would become second nature to her, but she knows it makes Santana anxious—Artie and Tina remove themselves from the living room and begin helping again. Although Brittany hadn't thought she'd had much, now that it's all stacked up inside her new home, she furrows her brow wondering when she'd even accumulated so much stuff, and how she'd managed to shove it all beneath beds and on top shelves of closets in her old apartment. By the time it's all moved inside, Brittany has no idea where Santana has gone off to, and looking at her friends slumped on the couch, she calls out her name and hears a response from the kitchen. As she walks through the doorway, she finds Santana with a box carefully slit open and holding Brittany's Tony the Tiger cereal bowl in one hand, and her Snap, Crackle, Pop in the other.

"Oh good! You found my kitchen stuff!" Brittany chirps excitedly. "Is the Strawberry Shortcake one in there too?"

"I'm not sure…there's…uh…a mix of stuff in here and…" Santana stammers, cheeks shining with embarrassment as she looks down at the partially closed box. "There's a… _magic wand."_

"A magic wand?" Brittany raises an eyebrow, the bursts out laughing the instant she realizes what it is Santana is talking about. "Babe, are you that embarrassed about finding my vibrator? You know you've had your _tongue_ ins—"

"Brittany! Keep your voice down!" Santana hisses, then starts blinking incredibly rapidly. "I just didn't expect to find that in here. I didn't even know you _had_ one."

"Of course I do. Lauren worked at The Pink Pussycat for awhile a few years ago, and Hitachi totally rocked my world."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Santana bites down hard on her lower lip, the idea of Brittany just walking into a store called _The Pink Pussycat_ actually _less_ disturbing than the self-doubt that begins to creep in that she might not be satisfying Brittany enough. "So do you…?"

"I mean, duh, that's kind of the point, Santana." Brittany rolls her eyes a little.

"Oh, okay…"

"Hey, weirdo." Brittany puts her hand under Santana's chin and tilts it up so she's looking in her eyes. "Who do you think I'm thinking of? _Nothing_ gets me going like picturing you propped up on your elbows between my legs, looking at me with those smoldery eyes you get, and licking your lips. I start thinking of that sometimes, and you're at work, or whatever, and it gets me off way better than my own fingers. Why, do you _not_ ever—"

"Your friends are _right_ in the living room, oh my God."

"You know they're totally occupied watching _General Hospital._ I'm just trying to make you feel better about something that's got you all freaked out."

"Well it's not really working."

"Santana Lopez, are you freaking for serious right now? That bite mark I know you still have on your shoulder should tell you that you are the best lover I've ever had, and me owning a vibrator's got nothing to do with it. I would've gotten rid of it when I was packing, if I would've thought it would make you feel bad. But—" Brittany leans in, breathing into Santana's ear. "I thought it would be _really_ hot if we played with it together."

"I…" A chill runs down Santana's spine at the husk in Brittany's voice, and the visuals that accompany it.

"I was thinking you'd let me spread your legs and press it against you. Over your panties first, until you're writhing, and begging me for more. Then I'd pull them down and part you with my fingers, bringing them to my lips to taste how much you want me. I'd kiss you, so you could taste yourself too, before I'd press the vibrator back against you, and feel the way the pulsations ripple through your whole body. And then, just before you come, I'd—"

"Fuck, Brittany, can you _not_ right now?" Santana presses her thighs together and reaches for her water glass on the table.

"I'd throw it to the side and I'd finish you with my mouth." Brittany races out in one breath, then grins innocently at Santana. "But, you know, I'll totally toss it if you—"

"No." She yelps. "Just…go hide it somewhere in our room. Just…make sure your friends don't see it on your way, and you put it somewhere that Millie won't accidentally come across it and discover the filthy, filthy things I fantasize about you doing to me."

"Okay." Brittany arches an eyebrow and gives Santana a quick kiss on the lips. "But I'll let you know where it's stashed…in case you need to _fantasize_ while I'm at work."

"And…if I wanted to use it on you?"

"Do I even have to answer that, babe?" She winks over her shoulder. "It would be my _pleasure."_

By the time Brittany comes back from stashing the vibrator in the top drawer of the nightstand, removing the key and hiding it under the lamp, Santana has found Brittany's Ronald McDonald and company glasses, and her Garfield mugs, and has them washed and lined up in the dish rack. Eight boxes are open on the floor, and remaining inside of them are Brittany's clothes, now neatly folded and possibly arranged according to season. Smiling adoringly at her girlfriend's furrowed brow as she attempts to make room in the kitchen cabinet, Brittany knows just how much Santana loves her, how this woman making _room_ for all of her kooky things is so much more special than it would be with anyone else, because she craves order and routine so fundamentally.

"Alright, task number one taken care of. The key to the nightstand on my side of the bed is under your lamp."

"Good to know." Santana swallows hard, having been unable to shake the words Brittany husked in her ear, even as she'd busied herself. "So your friends are…"

"Being lazy sacks of crap and drinking beer in the living room. We can totally kick them out."

"I promised them pizza, Britt."

"You promised them pizza in exchange for _helping._ Pretty much only Mike earned it. Artie and Tina get negative pizza."

"Stop." Santana throws a paper towel in Brittany's direction. "They might be snoopy, and kind of a _lot,_ but I don't want them to feel like you're moving in with someone who can't let their hair down."

"Babe." Brittany cocks an eyebrow, attempting to hold back her laugh.

"Hey! I let my hair down…sometimes."

"Mostly when you're naked." She counters, then leans over and strokes Santana's thumb with her cheek. "Your passion and intensity is something I love about you a _lot._ I'm not asking you to change for my friends who put their feet up on coffee tables."

"What?" Santana's eyes widen a little, and Brittany giggles. "Britt! Not funny. You _know_ feet on tables grosses me out. Ugh, and now I sound like my mother, the _last_ human being on the planet that I want to sound like. I'd rather sound like Walter Mondale."

"Hey, I _like_ Mondale."

"I love you to death, but I _really_ disagree with your politics."

"I'm aware. If you left me for a man, it would be Ronald Reagan." Brittany feigns a gag, and Santana scrunches up her nose.

"I love his economic policy, _not_ his body. Maybe _Nancy."_ She teases, and Brittany swats at her. "Kidding. I'll take my hippie liberal girlfriend any day."

"Damn straight. Now, I'm ordering the pizza and then telling them the van is being towed so they leave. You've got something to show me, and I've got _things_ to show you."

Brittany calls and orders four pies, assuring Santana that there's no way they'll go to waste, and though she's backed significantly off carbs in hopes of actually landing some kind of role, she encourages Santana to open a beer, and to sit down and relax. She does just that—the beer and the sitting part, not really the relaxing part—and though Brittany knows she still feels really on edge, despite her assertions otherwise, and way older than her friends, Santana does her best to fit in among the rag tag group of artists and performers. When the pizza finally arrives, Santana jumps to her feet, setting out plates on the table, and feeling _extremely_ anxious when Mike and Tina decline to sit, instead folding their slices and standing around. She's trying, she's trying so hard, even when Artie accidentally flings his slice while telling a story, and it reaches the edge of the living room, smearing sauce and grease into white plush carpet. Brittany loves her all the more for the way she wants to welcome her friends, and as Santana gets down on her knees with Resolve, trying to nonchalantly remove the stain before it sets, Brittany crouches beside her, mumbling a soft apology, and an even softer _I love you a lot_. When they finally leave, Santana has switched to white wine, and she sinks down into the couch cushions, trying not to guzzle it as she sort of shifts her eyes over the room, the chair that's yet to find a place, and the still full boxes.

"Hi." Brittany sinks down next to her, one hand stroking her hair, and the other scratching the fabric of her jeans. "Please don't be stressed. I think you got all the sauce out, and Millie got that osso bucco stain out of your dress that time, so if you didn't…"

"I'm not stressed about the carpet." Brittany cocks her head to the side in disbelief when Santana speaks, and she shakes her head. "Promise. I just get a little overwhelmed with people I don't really know _knowing_ about me, and being in my private space. I know they're your friends, and it's _fine,_ and I'll get better about it, just give me some time to get used to their…openness?"

"You don't have to put it in your question tone, of course I'll give you time. Look, babe, I can't even begin to imagine what you deal with being so tightly wound and having to hide things all the time." Carefully, Brittany plucks the wine glass from Santana's hand, always concerned about her stomach trouble flaring up, and replaces the rim on her lips with a slow, sweet kiss. "The people I'm around are just overly open, and I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I'm so used to vagina jokes that I don't even hear them anymore."

"The thing is, Britt, I'm not sure I'll _ever_ get used to _that_. I mean, the other stuff, like Mike and Artie making fart jokes or whatever, yeah, but not the sex stuff. Fifteen years ago, I made such a big deal of talking about sex in front of everyone. I started a rumor that I got on my knees for the whole football team." Santana averts her gaze from Brittany, whose eyes widen. "I didn't. I just wanted everyone to think that, because it was less of a sin in my Catholic school than if I knew I was peeking over my books at the captain of the drill team who rolled up her skirt everyday."

"Santana."

"The point is, Britt—" Santana just shakes her head. "It's different now, and I like your friends, I _do,_ I'm just never going to laugh at Tina joking about having sex with me, or Artie telling that weird Virginia vagina joke. I don't want them to think I'm a dud, but it's just…its just me, and I'm sorry."

"Santana Lopez." Brittany cups her cheeks and kisses her again, letting it linger. "You don't have to be sorry. Look, I was super freaked out on my way up here about…I don't know, like, growing up or whatever, but the second I saw you standing in the doorway, I knew that I didn't have a reason to feel like that. I mean, I'm not saying I'm gonna quit playing Donkey Kong, because I'm totally not, and I'm gonna teach you to play one day, or I'm not gonna eat breakfast out of my mascot bowls, but I love having a grown up relationship with you. I _love_ that you put on your sexy suits and go to your important job, and then we go on dates where you order fancy wine in French. I love that you hang art on the walls and not _Blade Runner_ posters. And I love that what we do in the bedroom—or, like, wherever we do it—is something that's really special and private. I wouldn't be dating an older woman, if I didn't think your maturity was sexy."

"I'm not _that_ much older that you."

"You're right, it's _only_ seven years. But really, you're not a dud, and I love that being with you is being _with_ a grownup, and makes _me_ one too, even semi-unemployed, in my Van Halen t-shirt, and jonesing for spring to come so I can get back on my bike. I love our relationship, and I love _you."_

"Even when I'm anal and uptight?"

"You're not, usually, with me, but I love everything about you, so yeah."

"So can I be a control freak right now and say we need to finish your boxes before my head explodes?"

"I think that's fair." Brittany chuckles, offering Santana, who stumbles, a hand up. "You gonna be okay, drunky?"

"Shut up, I'm fine." She smacks Brittany's arm, but then loops her own through, and leans against her. "You live with me now."

"I do live with you now." Pressing her lips to Santana's temple, she pulls her closer, absolutely adoring cuddly drunk Santana, and glad she'd stopped with the wine before she became weepy drunk Santana. "And didn't you say you had a surprise to show you."

"Nuh-uh, not until we're done with the boxes. I'm saving all the work I have to do this weekend until you go in to the restaurant tomorrow, and I don't want us to leave it until morning."

"I wouldn't do that, I know you, you'd end up getting up in the middle of the night and unpacking."

"I mean…maybe." Santana rolls her eyes and cuddles further into Brittany's side. "Let's just do it now, I promise, your surprise is worth waiting for."

They work quickly, sorting through piles of dance shoes, old costumes, and pictures of Brittany's family, laughing and making goofy faces, in stark contrasts of the one of Santana's family that sits on the mantle, her imposing father and disdainful mother, with Santana attempting not to look like she'd rather be dead than posing with them in front of their mansion. It's Santana who puts one of Brittany's family on the opposite side of her own though, it's Santana who hopes that someday, she'll have _Brittany's_ family embrace her for who she is, even though she knows the Lopezes never will. Brittany notices her quiet wistfulness and pulls her closer, not speaking about it, because she knows Santana _won't,_ but just offering silent support, an unspoken promise that she's always there, that she'll always love her.

When they're finished and Brittany brings the broken down boxes out to the trash, Santana leads her up narrow stairs in the back of the house. With the exception of Santana's office, the upstairs is rarely used. There'd never been a need for it, not with Santana living there alone. One of the two bedrooms up there has sat vacant since Santana bought the place, housing only odds and ends that she couldn't find a place for, and the other a bed and a dresser, a place for Millie to keep anything she chooses, in case the weather is bad, or she and Marley stay to watch the house while Santana goes out of town. Brittany looks at Santana quizzically as they walk up the stairs, but Santana just shrugs, knowing if she speaks, she'll give away the surprise that she hopes her girlfriend isn't too upset that she put together.

With Brittany at her heels, Santana cracks open the door to the unused room, and she peeks in, turning on the lights and making sure—though she had done it twice since the contractor she'd hired had finished it up on Wednesday—that all was well. Satisfied with it, she opens the door fully, revealing the empty space, housing only waxed wooden floors and white walls covered in mirrors and bars with a new stereo in the corner. At the sight, Brittany sucks in a breath, hands flying to cover her mouth.

"Santana Lopez. You didn't."

"I…I couldn't help myself." She sucks on her bottom lip and watches Brittany's shining eyes.

"You—" She spins Santana around to kiss her between words. "Are. Absolutely. Awful. And. I. Love. You. A. Lot."

"I know you were working out at the rec center by your old place, and it's really far for you to go down there every day. I just figured…I have my office, and I wanted you to have a space of your own too. Somewhere you can practice your routines and land a role that's worthy of you, or, you know, just hang out if I make you crazy and you need time to yourself."

"You're too much." Brittany fans her face, trying to keep herself from crying at just how lucky she is to have someone who believes in her as much as Santana does. "This is too much."

"I figured I got _you_ as a gift today, so I should get you something too. Something that doesn't just feel like you're fitting yourself into _my_ life."

"Okay, so remember how earlier, I said you where getting _so_ lucky tonight?" She lifts Santana, who yelps a little, so her legs wrap around her waist, and she tests the strength of the ballet bar before she rests Santana's ass on it. "That times a million. Right here. Right now, roomie."

"I love you so much." Santana can't help but giggle into Brittany's neck as she works the button on her jeans with skilled fingers.

"Yeah, you think, crazy face? Thank you. Thank you for this, for _everything."_

"For you, Britt, the whole world."


	11. Never Dreamed There'd Be Someone to Hold

The first few weeks of living together are an adjustment for Brittany and Santana, without a doubt. While Brittany struggles with keeping her things from spilling out all over the compulsively ordered home, Santana practices her breathing and reminders that it's no longer just _her_ space, so that she doesn't let frustrations get the best of her when things weren't exactly her way. They're an odd couple, without a doubt, but they love each other so fiercely that they won't risk their relationship by fighting over something as absurd as where Brittany left her socks, or where Santana moved Brittany's work apron. Plus, waking up with each other every day, even after Brittany worked a late shift in the restaurant? That's _kind of_ the most amazing thing either of them has ever experienced.

As the city begins to thaw out, and Brittany works tirelessly perfecting her audition routines, Santana struggles with an issue she hadn't told her girlfriend about; Easter Sunday, and the Holy Days that preceded it. Back in February, when Santana had gone to Ash Wednesday service after work with her parents, she'd showered away the black smudge on her forehead and the subsequent shame of living a secret life that her family and their strict church would see as the worst kind of sin before Brittany even came home to see it. But the Easter holiday is different, and for the first time in her life, Santana considers lying her way out of it. Of course, as the day draws closer, and Terri pages to tell Santana that her mother is on the line, it begins to seem like the universe has other plans.

"Hi, Mama." Santana answers the phone, fingering the penny on the ring of keys that sits in the top drawer of her desk. "How are you?"

' _Estas bien. Escucharme, remember I told you about the kitchen renovation I decided to do? Not that you've seen it.'_

" _Si, Mama. Lo siente,_ work has been really busy." She sighs.

 _'Always work. You're going to look back in your forties when you're still single, and regret that this is what you chose, rather than a husband and a family.'_ Her mother snaps, but Santana doesn't respond. She _can't_ respond. There's nothing she can say. _Mama, I found a girl who loves me and who I love? Mama, I'm one of the homos that you're constantly talking about?_ No, it's impossible. _'Anyway, I didn't call to talk about that. I called to tell you that because of a underestimate of how long the job would take, the kitchen isn't done, and your father and I will be having Easter dinner at your house.'_

"Mama, I—"

 _'No excuses, Santanita. Cater it, if you have to, but the three of us will go to Saint Paul's, and then we'll break the Lenten fast there.'_

"Okay." Santana concedes, her affirmative laying like a ton of bricks on her chest. Her affirmative meaning that her parents will be in the home she shares with Brittany, and her skin crawls beneath her pantyhose and under her hair. "Okay I'll take care of it."

 _'Good, so I'll see you then. I'm running out to have lunch with Renata Perez. Rumor has it, her son is single again,'_

"Ignacio is twenty-one."

 _'And already a successful hedge fund manager. He'd be a good provider, give you a beautiful home.'_

"I don't need a provider, and I already _own_ a beautiful home."

 _'And a barren womb. You're not getting any younger, Nita.'_ Santana sucks in a deep breath, holding back her temper at her mother, _always_ respecting her elders, as her mother raised her— _such a good daughter-in-law she'll make, if she ever settles down,_ she hears in a chorus of English and Spanish in her mind. There's no use arguing, there's never any use arguing, because it's one she'll never win.

"I'll see you Sunday, Mama."

 _'Friday. For six o'clock Mass.'_

For the remainder of her day, Santana is a bear. Terri gets most of her wrath, followed by Ben Israel, but only the new kid Hummel is quick enough to steer clear and bury his nose in his work. On some days, she hates him most, with his unintentionally flamboyant mannerisms and coordinated clothes that even the most dapper heterosexual male couldn't put together, but she never says a word to him. She suspects there's a reason behind his move from San Francisco to New York, beyond job prospects, and she gets how badly it sucks sometimes to be different than you're supposed to be. Besides, he's a good worker, definitely better than Ben Israel, or Schuester, who spends half his day flirting with Terri. So he deserves her wrath far less than anyone else, for more than one reason.

Brittany is working late, she always does on Mondays, because it's a slow day, and Robbie can handle having her on the floor for the dinner rush without worrying about her getting overwhelmed and spilling things all over the place. Santana hates those days, usually, but today, she's secretly glad for it. She needs some time alone. Time to soak in the bathtub, to light candles, to have a glass of wine, and to think about exactly how she's going to handle having her parents at her house, the house she _shares_ with Brittany, and how she's even going to _tell_ Brittany that this is a thing that's happening.

"Hey sexalicious." Brittany opens the front door and finds Santana on the couch, nursing her second glass of wine and watching the news, just after eleven.

"Hi." Santana tilts her head up to accept Brittany's kiss, barely registering the goofy nickname. She smells like Szechuan beef, and she's got grease streaked down the front of her black button down, but her smile, it's exactly what Santana needs. Her face that always understands, her face that always _loves._

"Rough day at work?" She nods to the wine, and Santana half-shrugs as Brittany plays with the top button on her pajamas.

"Just…a day. I know you probably want to shower. I'm okay, we can talk when you get out."

"Alright, cool. I'll be quick."

In response, Santana just nods. Her heart thuds hard against her rib cage, and she wishes, more than she's ever wished for anything else, that she could be braver. She wishes that she could announce to the world who much she loved this beautiful, amazing woman, this woman who's the only good thing in the miserable world. She wishes she could tell her parents to go screw themselves if they have a problem with it. She wishes that there would be no repercussions in her professional life if she were just embrace who she is. She wishes that even if there were, she could just walk away. But that's not reality, that's not _her,_ and so she throws gas onto the fire that bubbles up the steaming pot of crap that stews away inside of her, and she just hopes for the best, she just hopes, beyond all other hope, that a day will never come where Brittany gets sick of dealing with it.

When Brittany comes back out of the shower, she comes back into the living room in just a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt—one she'd picked up for eighty five cents at a thrift shop because she knows Santana loves them—and her panties, carrying her own glass of wine. She swirls the crimson liquid before taking a sip, closing her eyes as the bite hits her. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and Santana just watches for a moment, her stomach twisting, twisting.

"You could have opened the white if you wanted. You hate red wine."

"I don't _hate_ it." Brittany sips again, as if to prove her point, before curling into Santana's side. "I just prefer white. This is fine. As far as red goes, cab is the best option."

"And you'd rather I don't down the whole bottle and start puking blood."

"Well I would _always_ prefer that." Her eyebrows furrow in concern. "What's going on, babe. You look like you want to murder someone…or already did. Do you need help hiding a body? Because I don't condone violence, but it's _you,_ so I could make an exception."

"I love you, you know."

"I do know, but I definitely never get tired of hearing it."

"My parents are coming here for Easter." She just blurts it out. May as well rip the bandaid off, may as well just accept what's happening, since there's no stopping her mother once she has her mind set on something.

"Oh." Brittany takes in a large swallow from her glass, and Santana can't help the bitter laugh that escapes her throat. "Okay. I can go hang at my old place for the day. Or, like, invite myself to Artie's parents house."

"No." It's a whisper when Santana says it, but Brittany's head jerks up and watches her slowly shake her head. "No. I don't want you to."

"Santana."

"This is your house too."

"Yeah. But I don't want to make things harder for you."

"I…" The way Santana chews her bottom lip still hasn't ceased to make Brittany less nervous. She doesn't just bite it, it's such a nervous thing that it really seems entirely possible that she might take a chunk out of it one day, and she's seen the sores Santana gives herself in doing it. "I'm allowed to have friends, and if I want to have you here for Easter dinner, I can."

"Babe." Brittany takes another long pull of her wine, wrinkling her nose at the glass when she sees that it's already nearly empty.

"I hate that I have to pretend. That _we_ do. I hate it more than anything in the world. I hate that I have to keep who you are to me a secret, with them, at work…and I'm so sorry for that. You don't have to stay, I don't blame you if you'd rather go be around people who aren't awful, but…I'd really like if you were here."

"Then this is where I'll be." She presses a soft kiss to Santana's lips, thumbing the creases around her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

For the rest of the week, Santana is a wreck. Try as she might, Brittany can't calm her down, even with the most powerful weapons in her arsenal. Even after sex, where she'd usually fall asleep, completely blissed out, on Brittany's chest, Santana curls up on her side clutching her stomach. For the first time, Brittany is just clueless as to what she can do to help her, and by Friday, as she sits on the couch watching _General Hospital,_ she's willing to try anything to make her girlfriend feel better.

"Why the long face, honey?" Millie waits until the commercial break to look up from where she stands at the ironing board, starching napkins, and Brittany's head snaps up.

"Nah, nothing, it's cool, I'm just thinking."

"Alright, well, if it's anything I can help you with, I'm right here."

Brittany doesn't say anything, she's not sure that she should. She continues watching the show, rolling her eyes at how unrealistic everything is—she much prefers the realism of primetime television, thank you very much—and when it's over, she watches Millie go into the dining room to start setting the table for Sunday's dinner. Try as she might, Brittany's still not comfortable sitting around the house while Millie works, and so she meanders into the other room, lifting up and inspecting pieces of Santana's fancy formal silver wear.

"I don't get it either." Millie says softly, lying four china dishes down on the long rectangular table. "My Marley and I have always used the same old stuff, even when we have company. No one seems to mind what they're eating off of, so long as the food's good."

"Same with my family. This is just a whole different world I'm learning over here."

"I don't think Santana cares much for any of this either, she just goes along with it all, since it's what she was raised to do."

"Have you met her parents before?" Brittany chances to ask, pretending to be more interested in the crystal goblets than Millie's answer.

"Yeah. I've worked for Santana for nine years, but they've only been in while I was working a handful of times."

"Are they…?" She's not sure what word she's searching for. _Terrible? Awful? Mean?_

"They're…they're not very kind to Santana." Millie pulls her lips into her mouth, looking cautiously at Brittany. "It's not my place to say though."

"You can say it to me. I've never met them, and they're already kinda low on my list."

"She's just not what they hoped for her to be, I guess. Especially Mrs. Lopez."

"And they don't even know that she's—" Brittany's eyes widen at her almost-slip and she stops. No matter what Millie chooses to assume, Brittany won't confirm that verbally. "That she really awesome."

"She is really _awesome._ I was a little afraid of her when I started working for her, she comes off hard and angry, but as her employee, I can personally attest to her generosity. Toward me, toward my daughter, toward Unique."

"I mean, as her friend, I can agree with that." Her tongue always feels strange with that word _friend,_ but it's the best she can do without feeling like she's speaking out of turn.

"Mmhm." Millie sets the folded napkins down a top each plate and casts her eyes away from Brittany. "You make her really happy, you know."

"I hope so." She shrugs one shoulder. "She deserves that."

"She deserves a lot of things. Things other people don't think she should have. I know I work for her, but sometimes I think of her like I think of my own daughter. I'm glad to see her letting herself have some of them. And Brittany?"

"Yeah?" Brittany feels her heart thud hard against her rib cage, afraid Millie is going to ask her a question that she won't know how to answer. They share a bed, Millie has to know that, no matter how many times she changes the sheets in the second bedroom, and Santana said that she'd never let someone work in her home that she didn't trust, but still, she wouldn't feel right, not with Santana so constantly in knots.

"Bite your tongue."

"What?"

"With Mrs. Lopez. Trust me, it feels impossible, but if you don't, you'll only make it harder for Santana. Bite your tongue, and just let her work out her frustrations later."

"Okay." Brittany nods, but bites her lip, turning a knife over in her hand. "If it's what's better for her."

"It is. I promise you, it is."

It's late when Santana makes it back from Long Island. She'd left early for work, since the bank closed at three o'clock, and Santana is incapable of working a short day, and then having to take a car to Port Washington and back, coupled with Good Friday service and fish dinner with her parents has her beyond exhausted and tense. Brittany worries about her stomach as she silently sips her glass of wine, but she doesn't say anything, she just ties her raven hair up and unzips the back of her black dress, pressing a kiss to each shoulder and massaging out as much of the tension out as she can. She doesn't ask how it was, because she _knows,_ and making Santana talk about it won't help at all. So she just touches her softly, she loves her more, she reminds her that no matter what her mother says, no matter what any priest in purple robes preaches, she's beautiful and she's special and she's _loved._

On Easter morning, Santana wakes up early. She can't help but smile at the Cadbury Creme Egg that Brittany left beside the coffee pot, and while her girlfriend sleeps in after her late shift last night, Santana takes a bite of the egg and sips her coffee slowly, prolonging the inevitable. When Santana gets out of the shower, and she slips into a loose, flowery dress—so very _un-_ Santana—Brittany is just waking up. She stretches her arms over her head and she hums to herself, before noticing Santana at the vanity in hot rollers. Her reflection smiles back at Brittany as she sits up, and Brittany just mouths _I love you_ , with a small, reassuring nod.

Once Santana leaves—after making the bed herself and checking over Millie's set table and the wine situation at least a dozen times—Brittany begins to stress out about what _she_ should wear. Clearly, her wardrobe isn't exactly appropriate for some kind of solemn dinner, and she looks at her tight neon orange dress and her Lycra legging collection with disdain. She wonders what Santana's mother would say if she knocked on the door—because of course she'll knock on the door, as much as it pains both her _and_ Santana—with a six pack of Budweiser in a Twisted Sister t-shirt? Probably not good things.

Eventually, short of going through Santana's clothes and looking ill-fitted, Brittany decides the best thing to wear is the outfit that she'd worn to her uncle's funeral last year. So maybe a navy blue dress doesn't exactly _scream_ Easter, but once she slicks her hair back into a bun and keeps her makeup soft, she figures that maybe she looks conservative enough for dinner with the Lopezes. Vacating the house, she goes to pick up the _tres leches_ cake that Santana ordered from some bakery in Spanish Harlem, and when she comes back down to their neighborhood, knowing full well that church will be over, and Santana will be at the house, she takes a deep, centering breath, before pressing her thumb to the doorbell.

"Hi." Santana opens the door, soft, and a little breathless.

"Hey. Happy Easter." Brittany's eyes flit behind her, seeing the stern-looking older couple on the sofa, glasses in hand. "I brought _tres leches_ cake, I hope that's alright."

"Thank you. They're my father's favorite, so he'll appreciate that. Here, come on in, let me take your coat."

The exchange between them is awkward, and Brittany can _feel_ Santana's conscious effort not to let her fingers graze her biceps as she slides her windbreaker—definitely in sharp contrast to the rest of her outfit—off and slips it on a hanger to put in the closet. She's being greeted with formalities in her own home, and though it hurts, Brittany knows by the sad smile on her girlfriend's face that her own pain doesn't even compare.

"Mama, Papa, this is Brittany." Santana introduces her, holding up the bread. "She brought _tres leches_ **."**

"So nice you could join us." Dr. Lopez stands to shake her hand, setting his brandy down on the coffee table. "It's typically just the three of us for this."

"I…uh…" The normally confident Brittany feels her palms begin to sweat, and though Mrs. Lopez hasn't said a single word, she fears her most. "I'm sorry I'm cutting in. I just mentioned to Santana that I didn't have any plans…"

"How nice of her to invite you." Mrs. Lopez's voice drips with the strange fake sweetness, like probably worse than Tab. "Sit down then, you're making me nervous just standing around there."

Sitting in one if the high back white wing chairs across from the couch, Brittany fidgets. Growing up with her hippie parents, she's really never done these formal things, she's never addressed people as Mr. and Mrs.—or in the case of the Lopezes, _Dr._ and Mrs.—but she has to try to conform to their norms, for Santana's sake.

"Brittany, wine?" Santana asks, perching on the edge of the couch beside her father.

"White, please, if you have it."

"Of course, I'll be right back." She nods, leaving the room, and leaving Brittany under the gaze of Mrs. Lopez's terrifying eyes.

"So, Brittany, we've never met you before. I guess you're one of Santana's new friends then? From the bank?"

"Oh, no. I'm actually a dancer." Brittany picks at her cuticles and bites her lip, every nervous tic she has manifesting. "I was just recently in _A Star Is Born: The Rachel Berry Story_ , where she also played…Rachel Berry."

"We didn't see that one, did we, Lucia?"

"No, we didn't. We saw Rachel Berry in _Cabaret_ , and she is insufferable. Also her father is a communist."

"I didn't know about the communist thing, but I agree that she's insufferable." Brittany forces out a laugh, and accepts the glass of wine from Santana's hand when she returns, letting only her pinky graze her wrist.

"This wine is _terrible,_ Santana, really." Mrs. Lopez rolls her eyes, and Santana casts her eyes down.

"I can open another bottle, Mama, if you want. Or you can try the white."

"Here, you can taste mine if you want." Brittany holds out her glass, and is met with a look of disgust.

"I don't taste from other people's glasses. Who knows if a homosexual spit on you on the subway and spread GRID to you?"

"Lucia, it's AIDS." Dr. Lopez sighs a little, checking his watch.

"Either way, it's the homosexuals who spread it, Renaldo, with their filthy ways."

"Mama, please." Brittany can _see_ the lump in Santana's throat, she can see her hackles rise, she can feel, even without touching her, the knots that form in her stomach and her back. "Can we just not talk about terrible diseases? Or communists? Or homosexuals?"

"Your father's life is on the line constantly, because there's not enough fear of God in these people, so excuse me for talking about it. It would do you well to care more. Maybe if it was _your_ husband at risk. Speaking of—" She waves herself off, and into the only topic that seems to interest her more. "Have you given more thought to calling Ignacio?"

"I wasn't giving thought to it at all. I changed his diapers."

"Always an excuse." Mrs. Lopez huffs. "It's like you don't even want a husband."

"I'm doing just fine here, Mama, I've told you that. Can we please just have one meal where we don't argue about this?"

"I'm looking out for your well being, because you're my _daughter,_ Santana. I just want you taken care of when we go."

"I'm plenty _taken care of._ " Santana scoffs, and Brittany watches her press a hand to the side of her stomach as she lifts her wine glass from the table. "Can we talk about something else, please? Papa, how's the run for Chief of Surgery going?"

"Excellent." He nods, swirling his brandy. "I should know by Labor Day. Expect an invitation to one hell of a party if it's mine. Your _abuelita_ has been waiting for this day since I was born."

"Well I'm glad—" Santana shoots Brittany a quick glance, then returns her attention to her father. "That you'll have fulfilled all her hopes and dreams for you."

It's a special kind of hell, Brittany thinks, the dinner with Santana's parents. It's entirely possible that Mrs. Lopez is even more awful than she imagined, _constantly_ picking at Santana. Be it the wine, the dining chairs, the _catered ham_ being underdone. It just breaks her heart into a million tiny shards, watching her girlfriend struggle to do right, when it seems like there's no right to be done at all. All Brittany wants to do is grab Santana's hand beneath the table. All she wants to do is kiss her lips and hold her close and tell her that she's _good enough._ But instead, she's fumbling with the fancy silverware, and she's forcing a smile as she shakes her head and tells her girlfriend's mother that no, she doesn't have a boyfriend right now.

Santana looks positively defeated when they finally leave. Her father, he's not a bad guy, Brittany doesn't think, but God, is her mother something else. She has some of insufferable qualities of the Upper East Side WASPs that Brittany has encountered in the time she's spent up here, but she's not quite like them, it's not quite the money she has—and that Brittany knows Santana has come from—that makes her the way she is. There's something more terrifying. Maybe it's the way she invokes God and her priest to justify her treatment of people, Brittany isn't sure, but it's certainly shed a lot of light on the Santana she knows, it explains, to a great degree, why Santana works so hard, why she needs everything just so, why she falls into these strange pits of self-disgust. She wishes so hard that she could tell Lucia Lopez to leave Santana be, that she's amazing and beautiful. She wishes she could tell her that all the _homosexuals_ she knows are better people than her, and that she ought to educate herself before she speaks about things she _clearly_ knows nothing about. But she remembers what Millie told her. She remembers that it will do nothing but make things harder for Santana. She's fiercely loyal, that incredible woman, and though it hurts her do deeply, Brittany knows she'll always have her mother in her life, and she would never do anything to make it more of a stomach twisting struggle than it already is.

"Well, that was successful." Santana's voice is laced with bitterness as she dumps the remainder of her mother's wine down the drain, watching the deep red swirl until it disappears. "She only said she was going to get AIDS from you once."

"She seems like she's pretty paranoid about it…" Brittany stacks the dessert plates, careful not to break the fine china.

"If it was a polio outbreak, she'd be the first one in line kissing sick orphans or something. It wouldn't be their _comeuppance for sinning._ She knows nothing about it, she doesn't even listen when my father tries to explain it, and yet… _"_

"Babe." She sets the dishes on the counter beside the sink, and wraps her arms around Santana's waist from behind, feeling the heaviness of her while being. "I'm sorry."

"No, Britt, _I'm_ sorry. You should have gone to Artie's, you shouldn't have been subjected to my bitch of a mother, and my father just sipping his brandy. _Lucia, dear."_

"It's part of the package that comes with _you,_ Santana Lopez. And I want all of you, not just the good parts."

"She just sat there asking you if you have a boyfriend, and it made me boil with rage. Not that I'm jealous of you being with someone else, because I know you love me, but she's so fucking _obsessed_ with women being in relationships, and here I am, giant neon dyke sign over my head, my _girlfriend_ sitting next to me at the table, and I'm just like yeah, gals being pals. I want to _scream_ from the rooftops how much I love you sometimes, but instead, I'm cowering in my closet like some kind of asshole."

"Stop. Santana, just _stop."_ Bile rises up in Brittany's throat, and her hands ball into fists. She takes a breath and backs away from Santana, waiting until she turns around to look at her. "You can't do this every time you see your parents, or go to a work function, or go to the _park._ You can't beat yourself up every time and convince yourself that you're not an asshole for having a hundred billion reasons for keeping your relationship and your sexuality private. I'm not asking you to come out. I'm not asking you to scream it from the rooftops. I'm not asking you to be in a position that's unsafe, so _please,_ stop telling yourself that you're in the wrong here."

"I just wish…"

"What?" Brittany watches Santana wring her hands in front of her, still damp from washing dishes, and she sighs.

"I don't even know anymore, Brittany. Honestly, I used to wish every single day that I wasn't a lesbian. I'd wake up in the morning and wish that I'd want to call whatever son of my mother's friend she wanted me to call that week, or that I'd feel some kind of tingling when some client winked at me on a business lunch. I'd wish that the thought of their hands all over my body didn't make me want to barf. I'd wish I could be normal, even when I'd wait for Friday night to come, so I could hook up with some nameless, faceless girl to loosen up all the tension that built up in my body all week." The lump in Santana's throat bobs as she speaks, and Brittany can't help but push away the tears in her own eyes with the heels of her hands. "But then _you_ happened, and I can't even wish that anymore because I love you more than I hate myself. So I don't know what to wish for."

"I wish." Brittany steps forward, holding one side of Santana's face in her hand. "That people weren't assholes. I wish that you could embrace how awesome you truly are, and that it wouldn't cost you your job and your family. I wish, more than anything that you could love you the way that _I_ love you."

Neither of them say anything for a long while. They just stand there like that in the kitchen, eyes locked. Seconds tick by, minutes, and Santana squeezes her eyes shut, just feeling Brittany's hand on her face, before she opens her eyes, then her mouth to speak.

"Thank you." She looks at Brittany, this disbelief in her big brown eyes. "I really hope that someday it's just easier for us…"

"I know it's hard, and it _sucks_ so big that you've gotta deal with people who don't get it, but babe, we've already got it so much easier than so many people."

"God." Santana leans in and kisses the corner of Brittany's mouth, her fingers playing with the shoulder pad of her dark dress, so unlike her. "The luckiest thing I ever did was walk into that club that night."

"On a date with another girl and everything." Brittany winks, her wry smile curling on her lips. "She must be doing well, now that Madonna has released two more singles."

"According to my cousin, the band broke up, and she joined the roller derby."

"Aw man, if I wasn't the one who got the girl, I'd be _kind of_ jealous that she's in the roller derby."

"Just so you know, if you _ever_ joined a roller derby, I'd be fearing for your safety, and I'd never sleep again. If I didn't die of a heart attack the moment you told me."

"Let's see how this audition this week goes, who knows, I might be left with no choice."

"I will fire Terri and make you my assistant to keep that from ever happening."

"Nepotist!" Brittany teases, and is so glad to hear a real laugh from Santana. "The one and only time I'd ever sleep my way to the top. I got some, like, über skills, in case you didn't know."

"Hmmm, you _might_ have to show me later, I think I forgot."

"You're terrible." Brittany loosens the knot in Santana's hair and tangles her fingers in her coarse curls.

"And you _adore_ me."

"You know it, babe."

Wanting some time to herself to just decompress, Santana waves off any more of Brittany's help with the dishes, sending her up to practice for her latest audition in the studio, and finishes them on her own. When they're all safely dried and back in the china cabinet, she pulls the tablecloths and napkins for Millie to wash tomorrow, and goes into the bedroom, taking her time washing the makeup off of her face and changing into her pajamas. She knows her wish, but she won't bring it up again, not when Brittany had tried so hard to make her smile. She doesn't wish she could love a man, not at all. She wishes that she could love _Brittany_ in a way that her mother would accept, in a way that didn't make her want to crawl until the pew at Friday's awful church service—because at least this morning's was all about rebirth and miracles, not sins. She wishes that the _her_ that exists in this house, face scrubbed clean and soft silk pajamas replacing harsh red lipstick and the sharp clack of heels on marble could exist the moment she crosses the threshold into the churning, rushing city, and what feels like a pretend life. She wishes a lot, but her biggest wish, she can already hear the thud of her feet on the floor above her. Her biggest wish, she already got.

After swallowing the pills for her stomach—because she knows she needs them more than ever with her dinner still soured in her stomach from her mother's behavior—Santana uses the bathroom and pads up the narrow back stairs. In her office, there's a stack of work she knows she can do, there's a cigar in her desk that sort of makes her lip curl in anticipation of, but she also hears the music from across the hall. It's something from _A Chorus Line,_ and though Santana's not familiar with it, she knows—for obvious reasons—that it's Brittany's favorite, and her record is so worn in that it's a miracle it still plays. Pushing the cracked door open, Santana watches Brittany, too involved in the music— _it wasn't paradise, it's wasn't paradise, but it was home—_ to notice the intrusion. She loves to see the music course through her body, she loves to watch her head snap and her body bend, she loves the way her chest heaves and her toes curl. It's more than just sexiness, it's something so raw that Santana has to remember to breathe.

"Hey." When the song ends, Brittany notices Santana and stands, hair whipping back against the form fitting lime Lycra top she'd changed into. Santana's eyes are drawn to the sheen on sweat on Brittany's cheeks, and Brittany's lips form into a wry smile. "Are you having filthy thoughts about me while I'm working? Because I've never—oh my God, I can't even lie, I have _all_ the filthy thoughts about you when you're working."

"Who, _you?_ I was totally clueless that you want to sweep all the stuff off the desk across the hall and bend me back over it."

"I mean, I _won't._ I'm sure your gazillion dollar accounts wouldn't like it if I your ass prints were all over their paper work."

"You, Brittany Pierce, are way too much."

"And you _love_ it." Brittany pulls her hair to the side with the band on her wrist, and she steps closer to Santana, running her hands over the silk sleeves of her pajamas.

"I do. And I love you."

"Are you going to bed?"

"Few minutes. The wine has gone to my head and my stomach, so I'm ready to call it a night."

"Dance with me first?" She bends to move the needle on the record player, then gives an exaggerated bow and offers a hand to Santana. "Everything is beautiful at the ballet."

"I like that song."

"Duh, because it's good, I mean, not as good as this one, but the whole show is _amazing._ The minute I get a real job, I'll be taking you to see it. Or…you know, if third time's a charm and I actually nail _this_ audition for it, then you can see _me_ in it. I can't even believe my girlfriend is a _Chorus Line_ virgin. Practically cause for ending the relationship." Brittany feigns offense, while Santana steps into her arms and lays her head in the crook between her shoulder and neck.

"So _that's_ the most offensive thing about me? That I haven't seen your favorite show?"

"I mean, _I_ saw it nine years ago on the first tour, and I was fifteen and lived in Arizona, and I've seen it _four_ times on Broadway. Like, didn't _eat_ so I could see it again. It's pretty much the reason I'm even _here_ right now."

"And also a good reason to remind me that you were fifteen nine years ago, when I was working on my MBA." Santana laughs, and lets Brittany dip her dramatically. "But I know it's important to you, and if you would _let_ me buy—"

"Nope, never gonna happen, this is _my_ date idea, babe. Because you're _uncommonly rare, very unique, peripatetic and chic."_ Brittany nails her timing and sings it right along with the record, making Santana blush and smile fondly at her. _"She walks into a room and you know from her maddening poise, effortless whirl, she's a special girl."_

"You're the only person in the world who can sing me a show tune and make me swoon."

"Um, duh, because I'm not a theater nerd, so it's hot, and also, I'm like, _very_ romantic."

"Yeah, Britt, yeah you are."


	12. Slowly Learning That Life Is Okay

Brittany is atypically jittery throughout the week of her audition. Because of the way she'd lost her last job, and her subsequent lack of callbacks on any of the _five_ auditions she'd gone on, she's beginning to feel defeated. She doesn't tell Santana, not because she thinks she'll be upset about it, but quite the opposite. She knows that Santana believes so completely in her, that she'll be full of all sorts of positivity about it—strange for Santana, for sure, but when it comes to Brittany, things are different—and Brittany just doesn't want to be too built up, not for a show so important to her, not for one she's already auditioned for, not when a snub will already hurt so badly.

So she takes the week off from work. Robbie is more than happy to give it to her, since it probably _saves_ him money, getting someone to cover her shifts who doesn't break several dishes a night, and she spends all of her time in the upstairs studio at home. She practices like she's never practiced before. She needs to make herself better than the best. She needs to stand out so much that the casting director can overlook the fact that she was fired from Rachel Berry's show, and that she'd been assured, so dramatically, that she'll never work in this town again. She dances and dances, she calls Sugar—who's on hiatus, apparently—to come over and partner up with her so she can diversify. She works harder than she's ever worked in her life.

She knows that Santana listens to her at night, when she works in her office. Brittany can smell the cigar smoke sometimes, and she'll take a break to peer in, watching Santana crunch numbers at her desk, watching her draw in the smoke, before slowly exhaling. It's the sexiest thing, she thinks, despite her worries about Santana's health, and so deliciously feminine, though you'd never expect it to be. She watches her there, still dressed from work, heels left beside the desk, hair starting to fall loose from a skull numbingly tight bun. She watches her, and she breathes a little, knowing that she has the unwavering support of the woman she loves, knowing that despite her pride, she doesn't have to find a role or risk asking Mike to help cover her share of the rent, knowing that she can crawl into bed with Santana, and it's more fulfilling than the applause of a hundred audiences.

On the morning of her audition, Brittany wakes up first. It's unusual in their home, with Santana consistently up before the sun, but it's barely five-am when Brittany slips out from behind her girlfriend, kissing the shoulder left exposed when her unbuttoned top shifted in sleep. The early April sunrise is fluorescent pink, and Brittany pulls on her tights and bodysuit, she watches it creep through the window, illuminating Santana's sleeping form. She's glad, when she creeps up the stairs, that the studio is on the opposite side of the house from their bedroom, glad that the music and the thud of her feet on hardwood won't wake Santana from her slumber. So she dances. Taking the advice of Shelby, the instructor in the theater performance class she'd taken in her first months in the city, she hasn't chosen anything from _A Chorus Line_ to dance to—despite the fact that she knows the choreography in its entirety. She'll save that for the callback. Instead, she's chosen _Chicago_ , the show, _not_ the band, though she's a fan, and she pounds out the beat to _All That Jazz_ until she feels like she might pass out. _Come on babe, why don't we paint the town…_

"Hey, you." Santana smiles, leaning against the doorframe, dressed for work, and coffee in hand. It seems like they've met mostly in this way since Easter, but Brittany guesses they they'll have to get used to contrasting schedules again, if some miracle happens and she actually _gets_ this role.

"Morning." Brittany flips her hair back and wipes the sweat off her face.

"It looks _amazing,_ Britt." Santana takes a sip, slightly flushed behind her mug.

"You've gotta say that, babe. You're contractually obligated, or something."

"You're a jerk." She chuckles, most of Santana's week having revolved around this big shot lawyer, who has thrown that term around almost hourly. "And I actually do mean it."

"I know, and I totally appreciate it. I'm just so fricken stressed about shitting the bed." Brittany strides over to Santana, whose eyebrow arches as she accepts a kiss on the corner of her mouth. "Sorry, I know, totally gross expression. Mom says it all time. I just don't wanna blow this."

"Yeah, I get that. But you've spent hours and hours practicing. You've only got a few hours left, and you should probably eat something so you don't collapse on stage."

"I will. We've got Lucky Charms, right?"

"I _actually_ made breakfast for the two of us." Santana takes both of Brittany's hands and swings them between their bodies, trying to cajole her. "Scrambled eggs, and cinnamon toast and fruit salad and _lots_ of coffee, since I know you didn't sleep well. I was hoping you'd come eat with me before I leave for work."

"You, _Santana Lopez,_ made me breakfast?"

"Hey, I've made you breakfast before." She protests, biting back her smile.

"Yeah, like, the first time I rocked your world with my radical sexing skills."

"You rock my world _every_ day, radical sexing or not, and I wanted to surprise you. _But,_ if you don't want my breakfast…"

"Really?" Brittany rolls her eyes a little at Santana, and just can't help but kiss her full on the mouth, wrinkling nose when she remembers that she'd come straight up to the studio without so much as brushing her teeth. "You know I do. Lemme just wash my face and brush my teeth, and then I'll come in."

"Because I haven't just seen you without doing either of those things?"

"No, 'cuz I'm a giant sweaty mess, and my lady made me breakfast, so I'd like to look _sort of_ human."

"Okay, fair enough,"

Brittany goes down to the bedroom and scrubs the sweat off her face, and the remnants of last night's dark eyeliner, before gathering the loose tendrils of hair that stick to her neck back into a ponytail. Once her teeth are brushed, she pulls a t-shirt over her leotard and wanders into the kitchen. Santana sits at the table, same as she does every morning, studying the newspaper intently. It's the _New York Times_ now, the _Wall Street Journal_ already crisply re-folded beneath it. She'll complain, occasionally, about how her current piece of reading material is too liberal for her own liking, but still, she'll read it each morning, absorbing their take on the exorbitant crime rate, on _the Dems fucking incompetence in choosing a candidate that'll never beat Reagan anyway,_ before putting it down in a huff. She's nearing that frustrated state—oh, how Brittany's parents would laugh to see her dating such a _square—_ when she looks up and notices Brittany there, just smiling at her.

"What did your buddy Walter do now?"

"Ha." Santana snorts. "Funny, that would mean he did _anything._ Sorry, babe, I know you like him, but _really?"_

"We agree to disagree on politics, remember?" Brittany raises her eyebrows. "Also we _never_ tell my parents that you're a Republican."

"Only to _your_ parents, Miss Pierce, is _that_ my dirty little secret."

"The worst kind of dirty secret." She sits down, taking a sip of her coffee, done just as she likes it, Santana's amazing talent. "Everything smells great, babe."

"I _am_ capable of making edible food, I just prefer Millie's cooking."

"I won't complain about it. But these are good eggs."

"I'm glad. I just want you to relax a little this morning."

"And you?" Brittany silently reminds Santana of her latest of client lunches with the intolerable lawyer investor.

"Definitely relaxing right now too. This guy just thinks because he looks like Robert-fricken-Redford that the world owes him favor."

"But this should be it, right?" Taking small bites of her toast, Brittany watches Santana spear her eggs.

"That's the hope, we'll see."

"Sugar wants to go to happy hour tonight. She's coming with me to the audition, and she insists that pre-celebratory drinks are in order."

"And that's not bad luck?"

"Nah, that's just alcohol, and if I get the part, probably the last time I can get really hammered for awhile."

"Where are you going?" Santana takes a long slow sip of her coffee, and glances back at the paper.

"Probably Holly's on MacDougal. I'll call Mike and Artie this afternoon, see if they feel like meeting up."

"Then I should expect you home really late?"

"I mean, I was _hoping_ we'd come home really late together. But, if you don't feel like it, it's fine, I'll just have a drink or two and probably beat you home."

"Oh." The heat goes to Santana's cheeks in this adorable sort of way that makes Brittany want to lean across the table to kiss her. "Yeah, totally. I thought you just wanted a night out with your friends."

"Duh, I do, but you're my _best_ friend, and what's the point of getting really drunk if you're not there to sneak into a bathroom and make out with?"

"Is that why you want me there then." Santana teases, and Brittany gives a half shrug, smirking the whole time. "Sounds like a good enough reason to me."

They finish their breakfast in familiar silence, Santana going back to her paper, and Brittany taking the arts section in order to scope out news of any potential new show openings. It does little to hold her attention, the anxiety of what the day is to bring still rippling through her, but at least it keeps her hands busy. When Santana's done, she stands up, smoothing her skirt and blouse, and sliding into her blazer, before she leans down to kiss Brittany's lips. She murmurs a soft _break a leg_ against them, and squeezes her hand, hoping to convey just how hopeful and supportive she is, without making Brittany even more nervous.

After Santana leaves, Brittany takes a long shower, figuring the smell of sweat and dirty hair will _probably_ serve only to deter the casting director from even looking twice at her. She takes deep breaths to calm herself as she gets dressed, and when she's in the closet, she spots her leather jacket, hanging there since she'd moved in, and knows exactly what she needs to calm her down. Just last week, she'd worked on the bike, changing the oil, cleaning the filth of winter, gassing it up, and when she finally sinks into the soft leather seat, she lets out a soft sigh, feeling so at home with her hand on the throttle.

She's probably quite the scene in their Upper East Side neighborhood, but she weaves through traffic, feeling the wind on her face and the smell of exhaust that somehow both exhilarates and relaxes her. Sugar is waiting outside for her when she pulls up, and she tosses her the second helmet, having to laugh at the scornful look on her face. Truthfully, she just can't wait to have _Santana_ back on the bike with her. She loves the way she squeezes her so tightly, how she presses her chin into her shoulder, and puts her full trust in Brittany's driving ability. It'll be hard, when they go back to working opposite schedules, when Brittany doesn't have her weekends anymore, but maybe, when summer comes, she'll convince Santana to take a day off, and they'll ride upstate, somewhere no one's around, somewhere she can kiss Santana outside in the sun.

"You better not kill me, bitch." Sugar hisses from behind, as Brittany puts her feet down in the busy traffic on Seventh Avenue. "You and this death mobile."

"You got hit by a car running across four lanes of traffic, I don't think _I'm_ the one putting you at risk for bodily harm." Brittany cocks her head back, and Sugar slaps her shoulder.

"Eyes on the road!"

"We're stopped at a light!"

"I don't care!"

So maybe it isn't so relaxing, her trip downtown on the bike, not once Sugar is involved with it, but it's better than the subway, Brittany figures. When she parks her bike outside of the studio on Fifty-First, where auditions are being held, Brittany hands Sugar the keys, and accepts her double cheek kiss before she has to go inside. Yeah, maybe there was no real reason for Sugar to come, when she can't even come into the studio with her, but something about having her right across the street, in big sunglasses and sipping her coffee while she reads _Vanity Fair_ is comforting.

The room is full, by the time she gets in, and Brittany holds back her laugh at the irony of it. A room full of people auditioning for a show about a room full of people auditioning for a show, classic. She doesn't speak to anyone, she never does—well, with the exception of Sugar at their _A Star Is Born_ auditions, but to be technical, Sugar actually spoke to _her,_ and not the other way around—she just puts her leg up on the bar and stretches. She doesn't want to know anyone else's hopes and dreams, she doesn't want to hear about their boyfriend's illnesses or their sad, sad childhoods, or how their father never loved them. It'll just make her feel bad if she gets the part over them. Her story isn't sad. Sure, she got fired from her last show for standing up for what she believes in, but she has a girlfriend who adores her, she's got parents who support her. Maybe that makes her deserve it less, or maybe it _doesn't._ She sure knows she'll work her ass off, just as hard, if not harder, than anyone else. Maybe it's callous, but thats showbiz, kid.

When they call her in, Brittany has to wipe her palms on her tights. If she gets this role, she'll be playing exactly who she is now, a hopeful dancer, one of the ones who get cut in the first round, painstakingly dancing to _I Hope I Get It._ She'll only be in the opening number, but she doesn't care. She'll be back on a stage, she'll be under those bright lights of Broadway again, she'll be able to _finally_ wash the smell of moo goo gai pan out of her hair. Santana will bring her flowers on her first night, and kiss the crap out of her the instant they get home. Maybe her parents will come out. Maybe—she's getting ahead of herself.

She calls out her name and number when she gets on the stage, and she waits for her music to begin. She stops picturing this glimmer of her future ahead of her, and instead, she pictures Fosse, she pictures the steps she's practiced hundreds of times, she lets the music overtake her. _Five—Six—Seven—Eight—Cat walk—cat walk—step—ball change. Come on, babe we're gonna brush the sky. Jazz run—jazz run—hip kick—turn._ Every single step, she hits perfectly, and when she's done, she snaps her head up, and gives a confident smile to the casting director. She was good, she was _better_ than good, but she knows that there are a thousand other dancers in the city who are just as good, and something close to that number who _haven't_ been promised by Rachel Berry that they'll never work in this town again.

"Thank you, Miss Pierce. You'll hear from us if we want to see you again. Next! Susan Michaelson!"

Sugar is leaning against the building when Brittany comes out, like some sort of modern day Audrey Hepburn in leg warmers and a giant yellow bow. She holds out a blue and white cup to Brittany, and she nods in appreciation, taking a sip of the coffee, light, with Sweet N Low. It's Brittany's post-audition go to drink, and she savors it before she even says a word.

"So…?"

"Uh uh." Brittany shakes her head, taking another long sip from blue and white cup. "You know the rules. It's the only reason you're the only one allowed to come with me to auditions."

"That, and I'm the only person you know without a job. Jeeze, you're so fricken superstitious. I don't even want to know what you're gonna be like on the day you get wedd—" Sugar stops abruptly, then looks down apologetically.

"Really, Shug? You, who's constantly offending everyone, gets tongue tied by the word _wedding?_ Yeah, it's dumb as shit, but my parents aren't legally married, they said they don't want the government in their sex life, or something that I drowned them out when they started talking never know, Santana and I might still have a hippie flower wedding I can be superstitious about _someday."_

" _Someday_ as in six months from now? 'Cuz you were _somedaying_ about living with her in January, and it's now _April._ So…"

" _Someday_ as in none of your business." Brittany rolls her eyes and tosses her cup in the trash. "I'm very happy like this right now, and know I will be for the long run. Marriage isn't the end all be all of everything. I love her, she loves me, that matters more than anything. Let's go, I sweat so much waiting that I smell like a dead monkey's ass, and I need to shower and ditch the bike back home before we hit the bar."

"Shoulda ditched the bike _before_ you picked me up. Fricken death mobile."

"Santana is the most neurotic person I've ever known, and yet she trusts me more with my bike."

"She's banging you, she _has_ to."

"Sure, that's it, Sugar, not that I actually know what I'm doing." She zips her jacket and straps her helmet on. "Let's go."

On the way back uptown, Brittany feels like she has a toddler on the back of her bike, with Sugar's nails biting into her thighs, and the sound of her shrieking in her ear. It's amplified, maybe, as the aftermath of her audition bubbles in her lower belly, and she's huffing to herself when she finally pulls into the alley beside the house.

Inside, Sugar occupies herself with _ooh-_ ing and _ahh-_ inglorious as she does whenever she comes by, over Santana's expensive taste, designer names that Brittany knows nothing about rolling off of her tongue. She finally leaves her with Millie, watching _As the World Turns,_ while she goes to toss her dance shoes inside the studio door, and then comes back down to shower. When she's finally dressed in a short neon orange dress—though Santana loves her in everything, she's partial to that, where one wing of Brittany's songbird tattoo peeks up past the back neckline—and has her hair and makeup done, she finds Sugar deep in a possibly offensive conversation with Millie. Brittany sends Sugar out to find the cab she's insistent upon taking, and Brittany apologizes profusely to Millie for anything Sugar may have said, but Millie just waves her off with a smile, telling her to have fun, and that she'll save tomorrow's vacuuming for late morning so that she can sleep in.

By the time Brittany and Sugar make it down to Holly's, Mike is already sitting on Artie's lap at the table, and the corners of Brittany's mouth turn up in amusement. Tina, who seems deeply engaged in conversation with a woman in a tailored suit with an Afro—for once, Brittany doesn't question her taste, because she approves wholeheartedly already—cocks her head to the side when she sees Sugar, and gives her a wry smile. Tina has sort of an unrequited thing for Sugar, Brittany thinks, considering she's lamented her heterosexuality on more than one occasion, and after the smile, she offers Brittany a wave, and re-engages in her conversation.

"Holly!" Brittany calls out across the bar, coming back to an old haunt that she hasn't frequented in awhile, one that seems so much more subdued than she'd remembered—an unfortunate product of the times, she assumes.

"Well lookey here, my second favorite bisexual blondie, after yours truly, _obviously,_ gotta master that self love. Where've you been all my life? Don't tell me you did something crazy like settle your ass down."

"Uh." A slow smile spreads across Brittany's face. "I mighta done exactly that."

"Girlfriend, grab yourself a barstool and tell me all about it." Holly slides a scotch and soda across the bar to her, and scoffs when Brittany raises an eyebrow at it. "Making up for lost time. Let's do this, tell me about your lady friend."

"My _lady friend_ is actually coming tonight, once she gets off of work."

"Tell me she's a nine-to-fiver. A yuppie?" Holly's eyes widen at the way Brittany's mouth curls up in a smile, and she slaps the bar laughing." _Damn_ girl, look at you, settling down with all this grownup shit. So are you living in Scarsdale yet?"

"My parents would disown me." Brittany snickers. "I'm still in the city."

"Sutton Place? Carnegie Hill?"

"Close-ish. Yorktown. She's a banker. Like, the sexiest banker I've ever seen. Sexiest anything, but really, if I'd known bankers could look like her, I'd never have waited with my money under the pillow until I was twenty-one."

"You kept that money under the pillow 'cuz you didn't have enough to put in the bank." Holly teases. "So what's her name?"

"Guess you'll have to wait to find out 'til she gets here, keep the mystery alive a little longer."

"At least I know you're still the same old Brittany. How's the stage life?"

"Well Rachel fired me—"

"What is up her _ass?"_ Holly interrupts, clicking her tongue.

"I dunno, me and Shug both got fired because she got hit by a car, it's a really long story. But I auditioned for _A Chorus Line_ today, so we'll see."

"If you don't get it, talk to me. I'll put in some calls."

"Holly—"

"Don't _Holly_ me. I know every homo in this city, and you can bet your pretty little ass half the casting directors you've seen have sat in that barstool and carried on about Rachel Berry with her head too big. I've seen you dance, I know you've got it."

"We'll see." Brittany can't help but roll her eyes, the idea of taking a handout from _anyone_ never really sitting right with her. "How's business?"

"Slow." She makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, and her demeanor darkens. "I've been loaning out the space during the day for support groups and stuff. Doing what I can, and all that."

"Sorry I brought it up."

"If we don't talk about it, no one else will." Holly shrugs, then turns on a smile and a wink at someone to Brittany's right. "What can I do you for, sweet cheeks?"

"I—uh." Brittany hears Santana's nervous stammer, and she turns around, smiling when she sees her playing with the top button on her blouse.

"Hey, babe!"

" _Babe?_ So this is the sexy banker? Brittany Pierce, A-plus! She is _bangin'!"_ Holly sucks her cheek and reaches out her hand. "Holly Holliday, proprietor of this shit hole, nice to meet you."

"Santana." She shakes Holly's hand slowly, and Brittany bounces up to press a kiss to her cheek.

"You're early! Did you actually leave work on time?"

"If I stayed there one second longer, the bell on the door would have been replaced with the balls of either Hudson or Ben Israel. Beefeater martini?"

"You are a feisty one. I like it." Holly winks, and Santana turns about twelve shades of red. "One gin martini, on the house."

"That's not necessary, I can—" Santana begins to reach into her bag for her wallet, but Holly knocks her hand away,

"When someone offers you a free drink, you take it. Anyone who threatens to use someone's man globes as a door chime deserves one in my book."

"She's right, Santana, just take it." Brittany threads her fingers through Santana's under the bar, and Santana's post-work-slash-public persona melts away, as she relaxes under her touch. "So what did they do _now?_ Still bagging on the new guy?"

"They're obsessed with it. Today I walked in on Hudson bent over while Ben Israel simulated sex on him. I reamed them both for twenty-five minutes in my office. It's a place of business, not a fucking locker room." She takes a long sip of the martini that Holly places in front of her and nods her approval. "And even if it were…I'm sorry, Britt! How was your audition?"

"I mean, I was _really_ good." Brittany bites back a smile, both at Santana's haste to ask her, and at the thought of just how good she'd been. "But we'll see."

"Look who's here!" Artie rolls up to the bar, having deposited Mike back at the table. "Holly! Shots!"

"So you can get drunk and ram your chair through my wall again? No can do, sir. Here, have another Coors." She tosses him a can of beer and switches out Brittany's nearly empty drink. "I'll let you go back to your table, Brittany. Santana, it was a _pleasure."_

At the table, Santana slips out of her blazer, and Brittany watches the muscles in her back ripple beneath the thin cream-colored top beneath it. She's already feeling the effects of the two scotches she's finished at the bar, plus the one she's working on, and she resists the urge to press her lips to the back of her neck. Instead, she sits down beside her, rubbing small circles with the pads of two fingers just below the hemline of her skirt. Santana squirms a little, raising a warning eyebrow, but Brittany only stops for a few seconds before she resumes her ministrations, massaging the bend of Santana's knee.

"Is Sugar really flirting with White Dread Dude?" Artie snickers, pointing his chin toward where Sugar is doing exactly that. "Don't like the Jesus tats fool you, guy is G-A-Y _gay."_

"What if I got a tattoo of your initials." Brittany husks into Santana's ear, making Santana shudder. "S.L. right under my left boob, in that spot you always leave a mark."

"Brittany." Santana hisses, trying to look anywhere but in Brittany's darkening eyes, and settling on Tina still flirting with the girl she'd introduced as…Alice? Aphasia? Santana's head had been already clouded by Brittany's touches when that had happened.

"No fake, I totally dated a chick who microwaved butterflies." Tina is saying to Aphasia, and even with Brittany doing her _Brittany_ thing, Santana wrinkles her nose in an effort to figure out if she heard that correctly. "It was the weirdest thing I ever heard, and it all came out in a smear campaign against her when she ran for prom queen."

"What the fuck kind of school did you go to?" Santana watches the girl have the same type of reaction out loud that she's having in her head, before she bursts out laughing, and Tina seems to breathe a sigh of relief.

"The point was, you just never know who you're dealing with. She was _hot,_ but one-hundred percent _crazy."_

"You love marking me right there, where no one sees it but you." Brittany draws Santana's attention back to her by pinching her inner thigh. "What if I did it permanently?"

"He's definitely not gay, babe." Mike shakes his head.

"What if every time you pressed your lips there, you were reminded that I'm _always_ yours?"

"Britt, you're drunk." Santana whispers back, realizing she's never really seen her like this.

"Doesn't mean I wouldn't do it. You'd love it, wouldn't you? I know you're super into the ones I already have. "Imagine one that was all yours, a heart around it, because I love you."

"Watch, I'll prove to you he's gay." Artie rolls back suddenly, making Tina and Aphasia turn their heads.

"Dance with me?" Santana asks, desperately needing a way to keep Brittany from getting her so turned on that she can barely see. Though dancing might not be the _best_ way to accomplish that, there's a catchy song from some British band on, and at _least_ it will keep Brittany's hand from creeping further up beneath her skirt.

"Um, obviously." Brittany hops up from her stool and reaches out her hand for Santana. "You know I love this song."

There's probably nothing in the world Brittany loves more than dancing with Santana. It combines her two greatest loves, and the way Santana presses her body against her, lets her lead, just _trusts_ her is dizzying. Vaguely, at the table beside them, she registers Artie roll back, triumphantly raising a phone number above his head—to prove his point, _not_ to call—but mostly, she's simple overcome by the feel of Santana's hands running down her sides, and the low beat of the music. Santana lifts a hand to pull out her bun, and she bites her plump lower lip as she rakes her fingers through raven locks. It's beyond sexy, and Brittany swallows hard, realizing that two are _definitely_ playing at her game, and the second martini has loosened her up to a great extent. It's not until Brittany feels Santana lean in, breath hot on her neck and husking _shying away, I'll be coming for your love okay_ ,into her ear though that she feels her knees go weak, and she quickly downs the shot of…something…that Artie finally managed to cajole out of Holly.

"What's'a matter, baby." Santana slurs a little. "Can't handle your own game?"

"Oh, I can handle my game just fine." She snickers. "Just need another drink."

Santana holds fast to Brittany's hand as they make their way back to the bar, and she's so unusually giggly as she stumbles a little into her. This is a good buzz for her, she's not sullen and weepy like she gets from wine, or angry and snappy as she is its tequila. Brittany can't believe she's never seen her like this, and as much as she wants to plant a kiss on her lips right there, she doesn't want to risk snapping her out of this bubbly haze. Instead, she just keeps holding her hand, and she hums happily as Santana's chin tucks in her shoulder, on tip toes behind her, she's sure.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry." Santana laughs as Brittany bumps into the burly guy seated beside where they approach the bar.

"No biggie." He holds up the remainder of his beer. "No spill, no problem."

"Are you all by yourself?" Brittany chirps, trying to flag down Holly. "You can come sit with us. My friend Artie just got the dreadlocked bartender's number, and I'm sure he'll give it to you."

"Pierce! Tell your friends to stop chatting up my employees if they're not interested. Joe's giving out numbers left and right, and they're all in your group." Holly pulls two clean glasses out and begins to pour. "Besides, Dave doesn't need any phone numbers here."

"I'm sorry." Santana stifles another laugh. "She didn't know you were straight."

"I'm not." Dave guffaws. "Just seeing someone."

"Ooh, where is he?" Brittany looks around, sipping her drink, while Dave shakes his head with a smile.

"He didn't feel like coming out tonight. Shit day at work, I guess, and he wanted to be by himself."

"He probably didn't." Brittany blurts out, and Santana has to cover her mouth, totally amused by Brittany's bluntness. "You said _seeing someone,_ which implies you haven't been together long. She's got an stressful job too." She points to Santana, who nods solemnly. "She used to tell me that all the time when we started dating."

"And you didn't?"

"No way, but who the hell wants to be needy when they first meet someone?"

" _Not_ this one." Brittany points, then tries to fix the button on Santana's shirt, the one _just_ past where she knows is too much, and that exposes her black lace bra. "Opposite of needy, she disappeared for like two weeks after our first date."

"Hey Lucy and…blonde Lucy." Holly calls out. "Take your nickel from him, pack up your 'psychiatric help' sign, and let other people get to the bar."

"Is she…making a Charlie Brown reference?" Santana starts tomorrow giggle again.

"Can't help myself, his boyfriend _looks_ like a Peanut."

"He doesn't look like a Peanut." Dave gives an exasperated roll of his eyes, and finishes the rest of his beer. "You just didn't like his shirt last weekend."

"Because he looked like Charlie Brown. Holly Holliday's got standards."

"You've got a bartender in Daisy Dukes and a sports bra over there." He gestures his thumb, and both Brittany and Santana's eyes drift over.

"See, chicks dig it."

"I'd totally dig you in Daisy Dukes and a sports bra." Brittany turns to breathe into Santana's ear, the smell of Chanel making her dizzy again. "Just imagine—"

"I think!" Santana declares emphatically, tipping her martini glass back to finish it. "That we need to be getting home now."

Even with a hundred responses on her tongue, Brittany doesn't speak, not when she's got Santana so turned on, and so…happy. Instead, she simply nods, and they begin saying their goodbyes, telling Dave that he should still consider her advice—she should know, shouldn't she? She's got this amazing girlfriend, after all. Sugar's making out with Joe the bartender, Tina's making out with Aphasia, Mike and Artie are nowhere to be found, and Brittany and Santana just can't get out of there fast enough.

In the cab, Santana sits on her hands. It's all she can do not to tangle them in Brittany's hair and kiss her, to attempt to figure out how to shrink into the floor of the taxi and hike up Brittany's dress, to have dirty, filthy backseat sex that her sober self would absolutely never forgive her for. So she waits. She waits until they're in the house. She waits to push Brittany up against the back of the front door, and she waits to undo the buttons on her blouse. She waits to follow Brittany into the kitchen, and she waits for Brittany to hop up on the kitchen counter, all smirks and come hither looks, before she drops to her knees.

"Fuck." Brittany hisses, her eyes never leaving Santana's, as she pulls her own dress over her head without hesitation, revealing nothing beneath it.

" _Fuck."_ Santana repeats, unable to believe she'd gone the whole night without noticing that Brittany had been completely naked beneath her dress.

Of course, Santana wants to touch Brittany everywhere. She wants to bury her face between muscular thighs. She wants to hear the wanton, desperate moans that break free from Brittany's lips. She wants long fingers to tug at her hair, and she wants to hear her beg for more. But she remembers the teasing in the bar, the teasing that's pushed her to this extreme state of arousal, and she wonders just how far she herself can push.

While Santana's thumb presses into the spot below Brittany's breast, the spot she wants to permanently mark, lips graze a pale kneecap, and Santana feels the heat that radiates from Brittany's sex, almost too hot to handle. The raw scent of Brittany is dizzying, and she aches to press her tongue there, to push her thighs as far apart as they'll go—and it's far, she's a dancer after all—eat her out like she's never been eaten out before, but she won't, not yet. Instead, she exhales sharply, letting her breath _whoosh_ over Brittany's exposed center, and she redirects her attention to beneath her own skirt. Brittany's eyes lock on Santana's hand for just a moment, before she has to close them, has to picture the way Santana shoves her panties to the side, the way she parts herself, and teases one finger inside, before adding a second. Watching Santana touch herself is one of the sexiest sights in the world, but now, shes doing it out of sight, and Brittany squirms on the counter, suffering every minute.

"Open your eyes." Santana orders, both the forcefulness in her tone, and the new breath of air between her legs shocking her into obeying. "Look at my face, and imagine it's your fingers inside of me. Imagine the way I'm squeezing them, imagine your thumb on my—ugh!"

Santana braces her chin on the counter, Brittany's thighs muffling the sound of the kitchen clock, and the dangerous din of early morning New York outside the window, and she shuffles her shirt down, fingers working furiously inside herself. Though Brittany still playing can't see completely, though she can't watch the way digits slide in and out, faster and harder, she can watch Santana's face, watch how her brow furrows and her lips part, she can feel breathing growing more labored against her own increasingly wet sex. While Brittany massages her own breast with one hand, the flick of her thumb on her nipple jolting her each time, she tangles the other in Santana's hair, and she's insistent, she's desperate.

"I'm done with the teasing." Brittany tilts Santana's head up to look at her face.

"This is what you wanted all—ugh—night, isn't it?" Santana tries to remain in control, but she knows she's losing ground. "Fingers inside of—ugh—me?"

"I wanted _my_ fingers inside of you. From the minute you walked into the bar and you couldn't stop playing with the buttons on your shirt, I knew that I wanted you sitting at your desk tomorrow, sore, and remembering how good it felt when I threw you down on the bed and spread your legs." She rasps, and the words send Santana tumbling over the edge.

Brittany has to catch her breath at the sight before her, Santana's lace covered breasts heaving, and face flushed, her hand still moving lazily inside the panties she still wears. In spite of her bravado, Brittany is certain that she'll come far too quickly when Santana touches her. The woman knows exactly how to drive her wild, that's for certain, and this, Santana on her knees, pleasuring herself, while puffs of her breath hit between her thighs, it's about as wild as she can be driven.

Or at least she thought that was as wild as she could be driven. With her breathing still labored, Santana eyes Brittany hungrily, and she guides her to move closer to the edge, to spread her legs further. With a hiss, Brittany lets out her breath, when Santana kisses her wetness, then lazily drags her tongue through. She'd clearly underestimated her ability to tease, but the gin has apparently made Santana brazen, and when Brittany absolutely can't take it anymore, her second hand joins the first in weaving through dark locks. Finally, Santana takes the cue, finally, she has mercy on her, and Brittany's head bangs back against the cabinet, powerless over this flicking thing Santana's tongue does, and the vibrations she hums against her.

After Brittany's first orgasm, Santana doesn't stop, not even for a second. She brings her over the edge again, and then once more, until Brittany's hands no longer draw her closer, but plead for her to back away. Finally sobering up, Santana sits back on her haunches for just a few seconds, watching Brittany rake sweaty strands of blonde off her face, before she stands up and presses her lips to Brittany's, moaning at the way Brittany's tongue seeks to taste every bit of herself on Santana's mouth.

"Hi." Santana laughs sheepishly, _nervously,_ as of she's retroactively surprised by how she'd just been.

"I like when you drink gin." Brittany lazily kisses the side of her mouth over and over, completely comfortable hanging out right where she is. "I'm naked on the kitchen counter and you haven't reached for bleach yet. Maybe next time, I'll get you into your office and I'll sweep all the stuff off your desk."

"I think when I have to wake up for work in—" She cocks her head to look at the clock on the stove. "Three hours, I'll be swearing off gin for a _long_ time."

"I would suggest you don't go, but I know you. You'll get up and _worry_ about not going at six-am anyway."

"Yeah…I just _can't."_ Santana sighs, slightly wistful, fingers tracing Brittany's bare ribs. "You have to work anyway."

"Where I will be praying I don't barf on anyone." Brittany watches Santana's face register alarm, but she shakes her head as she hops down from the counter. "Not now, but who knows what's gonna happen in the morning."

"I guess we should go to bed then, prepare for the misery ahead." She bends down to pick up her discarded skirt, blushing a little at the memory.

"It was hot, babe. Like, one of the hottest things I've ever seen you do." Lips press against Santana's ear, and Brittany doesn't bother to pick up her clothes, until she sees Santana move to do it. "And maybe if we're celebrating me getting this part, we'll have to have a repeat show."

"I think it's not an _if,_ baby, I think it's a _when."_


	13. So Hard For It Honey

All through the weekend after her audition, Brittany is a nervous wreck. To calm herself down, she'd wanted to finally take Santana on that ride through Westchester County and beyond on her bike, but the weather is uncooperative, dumping buckets of rain down over the city, and effectively trapping her inside, like a caged animal. So, in between Brittany's shifts, they watch movies—Santana may have gone out to buy every _Brittanyesque_ film she could find on Betamax—they make love, they cook a late dinner together on Saturday, after Brittany gets home from the restaurant. It calms her down, sort of, but in the back of her head, all she can think about is whether or not the casting director will call. Whether or not she'll get another chance to do what she loves six days a week.

On Monday morning, Santana goes to work. She doesn't wake Brittany when she's leaving, instead, she leaves a note on her nightstand. _I love you, I believe in you. Call me immediately, if they call you. -S._ She kisses her forehead, brushing back fallen strands of blonde, and she leaves, hoping that her love will get the opportunity she deserves. She hails a cab, as she always does, and she arrives at work before eight, walking the floors, checking the safe, and finally settling into her office long before anyone else arrives.

"Santana." Terri interrupts her work on calculating interest rates on a new client's loan for a yacht, and almost spilling her coffee, she snaps her head up, exasperated.

"Terri. For the hundred-thousandth time, you have a phone at your desk for a reason. Why do you find it necessary to startle me twice an hour."

"Ooh, you're not as snappy as usual today. Someone get dicked over the weekend?"

"Excuse me?" Santana's eyes widen, though she tries to hide the flush that creeps up her neck.

"Ya know, s-e-x?"

"I'm well _aware_ what your colloquialism meant, Terri, and I'm also unsure why you find it necessary to spell _sex_ after you used that vulgarity. I assume you had an _actual_ reason for coming into my office? Or do you like to start each morning by pissing me off?"

"Oh. Right." She giggles, flipping back her hair. "William Schuester called. He's running late this morning. Something about his car."

"Schuester takes the damn subway to work." Santana pinches the bridge of her nose. "And how many times do I have to tell you to write down the entire message? _Something about his car_ doesn't give me the information I need."

'"I'm pretty sure the information you needed was that he'll be late this morning." Terri raises her eyebrows cheekily.

"Send him in when he gets here, the rest of them are lucky, I'll express my venom on him, and then maybe they'll make it through the day without almost getting fired."

"But he—"

"He's not getting fired, Terri. But if he spent as much time doing his job as he does flirting with you, maybe he wouldn't have to worry about it every time he was up for review." Santana holds up her hand at Terri's attempt at a defense, and takes a long sip of her coffee. "And I'm expecting a very important call from a _Brittany Pierce_ sometime today. I'll need to speak to her immediately. So help me, if I find out you were on the phone with that psychic hotline again, instead of answering my calls…"

"Well Anjelica said that I'm looking for love in all the wrong places, and—"

"Number one, she's right. Number two, I really, _really_ don't care."

"Sheesh, fine. I'll let you know when your call comes in."

"By using the _phone,_ Terri. The phone. I lose more work time with you barging in her with your plethora of inane comments than I do cleaning up the messes of Hudson and Ben Israel."

"Not even true."

"Entirely true. Goodbye, Terri."

Santana spends her morning exasperated. It seems like that's how she spends every one of her mornings, and middays, and afternoons, and early evenings, and by lunch time, she considers digging into her desk and liberating the the box of Cuban cigars a client had given her— _for your husband, perhaps._ But she doesn't smoke them at work. It makes her uneasy, the idea of someone walking in on her, shoes kicked off beneath her desk, leaning back in her chair with a cigar in her mouth. It's decidedly unfeminine, and given the fact that she's not deaf to the murmurs about her failure to bring a date to every work function she's ever attended and the occasional gossip about whether her dominating presence means she's a _dyke,_ she chooses not to add fuel to the fire. Instead, she takes deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, and runs her thumb over the fading bruise just below the waistband of her skirt, a Brittany trademark, before she goes out to walk the floor.

"You fucked up, pretty boy. Lopez is gonna ream your ass harder than you got it through the glory hole last night." Azimio Adams stands over Kurt Hummel, the smaller man tugging anxiously at his tie, and attempting to maintain eye contact with his aggressor.

"Adams!" Santana barks, making the man nearly a foot taller than her cower in fear. "My office. Right now."

"But Hummel—"

"I don't give a _shit_ what Hummel did right now. He'll get his turn with me next."

"Aw man, you gotta be kidding me." He slumps, dragging his ogre-like feet toward Terri's desk.

"Oh, you _wish_ I was kidding you. Go."

Closing the door to her office, and pulling the cords in the blinds to prevent the gossip mill from churning, Santana feels her stomach roil. Azimo, Hudson, Ben Israel, they all make her uneasy with their casual homophobia, but this is more than casual, this was so frighteningly caustic that Santana actually fears for the safety of her employee. The flicker of envy she'd felt for him when she'd hired him, being far more her authentic self than she could ever dream to be, has since faded, and she finds herself in knots, almost perpetually, hoping the quick witted and charismatic young man isn't pushed out of this place by the likes of this great oaf.

"He fucked up an account! He's so busy flitting about in his ugly ass chaps—"

'"By default, Adams, chaps are actually _assless_." Santana replies, her voice flat, and void of emotion. "And the last I checked, he's wearing a suit. Just like you and your posse, just like me. Just like the president of the whole goddamn bank."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to punch him in his fag face."

"You are in the presence of your superior, Adams." She snaps, banging her first on the desk. "Sit up, wipe the smirk off your face, tuck your damn shirt in, and speak with a little respect."

The sound of the phone ringing on her desk cuts Santana off from the tirade she's about to go off on, and as she lifts the receiver, she glares at Adams, waiting for him to sit up and straighten his tie, waiting for him to less like a high schooler being reprimanded by a less than competent principal.

"What, Terri?"

' _Sheesh, I was definitely wrong about this morning—'_

"If one more person in this bank speaks to me with disrespect today, every last one of you can meet on the unemployment line. I'm in the middle of something, what do you need?"

 _'Miss Pierce is on the phone. I was_ ordered _to let you know immediately. But just so you know, she sounds poor.'_

"Terri?"

 _'Yeah?'_ Santana cringes at the sound of gum popping on the other end of the line, her biggest pet peeve—or one among many, maybe—about Terri DelMonico. She's torn about taking the call, especially since she knows it means that Brittany got a call either way, otherwise she wouldn't call her at the bank, but Adams is sitting in front of her, and she _can't_ talk to her girlfriend while she's on the verge of committing murder.

"Shut up. And tell her I'll call her back. If she wants to leave a message, put her through to my voicemail." She hangs up the phone, not waiting for Terri's reply, and presses a thumb to her left temple. "I'm done with it, Adams. From you, from _all of you_. There were six patrons in the bank, and you're yelling about glory holes? Really? _Really?_ You think that's professional behavior?"

"His face offends me."

"And _your_ face offends _me_. It's none of your damn business what he does or doesn't mess up on an account or anything else. _I'm_ in charge here, and the last thing you want me to do is pull a list of _your_ fuck ups. Get the hell out of my office, and so help me, I catch you acting like this again, it'll be _your_ ass you'll be worrying about when you're out of a job."

"Aw man, you gotta be kiddin' me." He shoves the chair as he stands up, and Santana arches an eyebrow in challenge. "Fine, whatever, but if I see him outside of this place…"

"You'll what? Assault him? I see a single bruise on that man, I'll call the cops myself. Grow the fuck up Adams."

Once she's alone in her office, Santana takes a deep breath. She feels the urge to be sick in the bathroom, but she swallows it back and opens her drawer to take one of her pills. The red light on her phone blinks with a voicemail, and the thought of hearing Brittany's voice quells some of the churning as she sips her Diet Pepsi. Bringing the receiver to her ear, she types in her answering machine code and waits.

 _'Good afternoon, Miss Lopez.'_ Santana knows she'd done that sexy drop of her voice on saying her name intentionally, and it manages to make her smile. _'This is Brittany Pierce. I'm calling in regards to the_ position _I'd been expressing interest in. As it turns out, they want to see me again this afternoon. But get this! They want to see me to audition for something bigger. Remember Kristine? The girl who can't sing? Well, the dancer in her role right now is pregnant. Anyway, I'm leaving home now to go down there. Since I won't be around to take your call once you're finished with what you're doing, I was hoping we could reschedule our conversation for dinner instead. Seven o'clock at Carmine's."'_

"Holy shit."

A grin spreads across Santana's face. With all of the times Brittany has listened to _A Chorus Line,_ Santana knows _exactly_ what part Brittany is talking about, and if she gets it, well, that's a _huge_ jump from the chorus to a significant part. Hoping there's a chance she might actually catch her at home, Santana dials their home number, hearing it ring three times before its picked up.

 _'Lopez residence, how may I help you?'_

"Oh, hello Millie." Santana tries not to sound so crestfallen. "I missed her, didn't I?"

 _'Just. She ran out of here in a flurry. I told her they wouldn't give away the part even if she took time to get fully dressed.'_

"I'm sorry I missed her. If she happens to call or come back by the house, can you just tell her that I got her message, and I'll see her at seven?"

 _'Yes ma'am. She said she wasn't sure if she'd be back, but if she is, I'll let her know.'_

"Great, thank you so much." She taps her pen against the desk, figuring she should get up and open her blinds again.

 _'Everything alright, Santana?'_ Millie asks, always concerned about her.

"Yeah, of course. Just…you know, work stuff. "

 _'It's time you took a vacation.'_

"Ha." Santana can't help but laugh.

 _'I'm serious. I know I'm not your mamma, but I do care about you, and you're still working yourself to the bone.'_

"Not right now. Not—" There's a long pause in her speech, when she realizes she's still not quite comfortable saying that she couldn't go on vacation without Brittany, and, well, if she gets this part, it'll be a long while before that would even be a consideration. "Not right now."

 _'Alright. Well, if there's nothing else you need, I'm going to get back to my ironing. And thank you for the gift you left for my Marley's birthday. It was unnecessary.'_

"You say that every year, but it's not going to change that I enjoy doing it. She'll be home this weekend, right?" In addition to her actual interest in Millie's daughter, Santana knows she's stalling a little, a knot inexplicably growing in her stomach at the thought of speaking to Hummel next.

 _'For the whole summer.'_

"Good, then we'll pick a day for me to take you both out to dinner, and Unique too."

 _'We appreciate that so much, thank you, Santana.'_

Once she finally hangs up the phone with Millie, Santana ends up calling the florist near her house. She just wants there to be a little something there when Brittany comes home, and as she recites the numbers of her credit card, she stands up, draping the phone cord over her desk and pulling the cords on the blinds. She rolls her eyes, of course, at the sight of Schuester talking to Terri, and he makes himself scarce at the sound of the blinds opening, knowing he's lucky she hasn't had time to deal with him, considering he's on her roster of people to speak with today. The rest of the bank seems quiet, and she inhales a sharp breath, before thanking the woman on the phone, and opening her door back up.

"Hummel." She approaches his desk, drumming her red nails against the laminate. "I'd like to speak with you please.

Without a word, Kurt Hummel stands up. One glare on Santana's part causes the _ooh_ ing to cease, and she sucks her teeth, unimpressed by the immaturity of at least some of the men who work for her. Once again, she pulls shut the blinds, and ramrod straight, with his hands twisting in his lap, the young man takes his seat across from her.

"Adams tells me there was a mistake with an account this morning. Care to tell me what _that_ was about?" She won't go soft on him, not where money is concerned.

"There wasn't a mistake." He tells her quietly, his eyes never leaving her.

"Excuse me?"

"There was no mistake. I was playing with numbers in an attempt to get the client a loan. He was a well to do gentleman, very expensive shoes, gold cuff links, everything, but his income to debt ratio was too low. He was shouting at me that I was obviously incompetent and made a mistake, as he rushed out of the bank. Azimio saw that, and took it as an opportunity."

"An opportunity?" Santana raises an eyebrow, rubbing the penny on the keychain in the pocket of the blazer that hangs over the back of the chair.

"Miss Lopez, with all due respect, I know you're a busy woman, but isn't it fairly obvious?" Hummel tugs on his tie, the tiny hippopotamus on his tie clip catching Santana's eye. "As Azimio puts it to me on a daily basis, my face is offensive to him. He's waiting for me to make a mistake so that you'll get rid of me."

"It I were in the business of firing people for one mistake, I wouldn't have a staff." She rolls her eyes. "Look, you come to work, you do your damn job, and you've got one. Anyone who's got a problem with that can deal with me. And if any of them talk to you like that on my floor again, I _will_ know about it."

"Okay." He lets out a breath, and Santana catches him blinking back tears in his eyes. "Thanks for that."

"I give you a great deal of credit, Hummel. It takes a lot to be authentic in an environment that can be hostile. Keep up the good work."

Though she wishes she could, Santana doesn't say anymore, she just send him back to his desk. With both Adams and Hummel dealt with, Santana manages to spend the rest of the afternoon doing _actual_ work. With her brain wrapped around interest rates and exchange fees, she doesn't notice how quickly the time passes, until Terri is standing in her doorway, purse slung over her shoulder, and one hand on her hip. She waves her out the door, and begins to pack up her own things, putting a few files in her briefcase, before walking the floor, and chatting for a few moments with Ken the night security guard.

It's misty when Santana gets outside, and she pulls her blazer tight around herself, lamenting that she didn't bring her raincoat. Luckily though, she finds a cab quickly, and in the backseat, she reapplies her lipstick, and wipes her running mascara from beneath her eyes. It's been awhile since she's had a real dinner date with Brittany, and she finds herself a little giddy as she pays the driver outside of Carmine's, and enters the restaurant.

"Right this way, Miss Lopez." The host smiles, leading her to a round booth in the back.

When Santana reaches the table, she's startled, immediately by the sight of Brittany in the black dress she loves so much, looking like Meg Ryan at the climax of the movie. With eyes red ringed and swollen, she gives Santana a watery smile, and wipes them furiously, trying to pretend she isn't crying. Santana wastes no time slipping a ten dollar bill to the host, hoping he'll spread the word to leave them be, and she sits quickly, setting her hand on Brittany's thigh beneath the table, and noting the mostly empty rocks glass of amber liquid.

"Honey, what's wrong?" She keeps her voice low, and Brittany just shakes her head over and over.

"Date night, it's fine."

"Date night or not date night, you're _crying._ Britt, please."

"It just really, really didn't go well." She hiccups, lifting her glass to swallow what remains. "I…ugh, I'm so embarrassed."

"It's _me,_ baby. Odds are, whatever it is, you've witnessed something more mortifying happen to me."

"I don't think so." Brittany forces a laugh, shaking the ice cubes in her glass. "I should've known better, I've been in this business too long to know when something is too good to be true."

"You didn't get the part?"

"The casting director. He—" She looks desperately at her drink, and against her better judgement, Santana raises her finger to signal the waiter, who nods his recognition, and heads off to the bar. "Fucking shit. He asked he to come to his office, and he started talking about Rachel Berry, and how she'd like, shit a brick over this, but he'd be willing to ignore that, if…well, he started unzipping his jeans."

"Oh." Santana quickly releases all her breath, and when the waiter comes into sight again, she holds up two fingers.

"I _didn't."_ Brittany rushes out, as if Santana expected any different. "I would never. I'd never do that to you."

"I wouldn't want you to do that to _you_ either." Her voice is soft and soothing, despite the boiling in her blood, and she squeezes Brittany's thigh.

"Three years ago, maybe, I'd have done it. Dropped to my knees, let him call me a whore while I gave him a BJ. Let him fuck me, even, if he wanted to, for a role like that. But…not now. Even if I were single, not now. I've seen it wreck girls, make them almost hookers for the role, scared they'll lose it if they stop. I mean, I don't judge, that's fine, if they want to, but I couldn't." Tears keep falling from her eyes, pooling on the mahogany table, and Santana nods her thanks as the two drinks are placed in front of them. "I really just thought…ugh!"

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"What if I never get a role again? What am I going to do? Serve Chinese food for the rest of my life? I'm _terrible_ at serving Chinese food." More tears fall as she pick up her drink and gulps it. "I feel so stupid. How could I even think they'd give me a _real_ role, when I haven't even been picked up in a chorus after _months_ of auditions?"

"No, Brittany, no. You're not stupid." Santana finds her hand beneath the table, and laces their fingers together. "You're twenty-three, you're supposed to be at the height of your career, and being a good person is making that really hard for you right now."

"I danced _so_ well in the callback. I got the song perfect, too. I messed up every note just the right way. And now I feel _heartbroken."_

"It's not right. No. It's _disgusting_ that people use their position of power to try to…to make people, _you,_ do…do _that."_ Anger oozes from Santana's lips, and Brittany has to use her own fingers to loosen the tightening grip on her thigh. "The audacity though, unzipping his pants like it's just _expected_ you'll get down on your knees for a part you already _deserve."_

She doesn't realize it, she's so wrapped up in her anger and concern for Brittany, but tears begin roll down Santana's cheeks. Above all else, Santana Lopez holds moral and principle, and to see her girlfriend denied something so important to her due to a lack of both shatters something deep within her. They way call her _man eater,_ or _bitch of Eastwick,_ or _Satan_ at the bank, but Santana has never been anything but fair, Santana has never compromised her own values, nor expected anyone else to do the same.

"I just need to figure things out." Brittany's murmurs, looking down at the second drained whiskey of the evening, her head a little fuzzy. "I just need to figure out if I can keep doing this. I walked around for four hours after, then changed in the bathroom of a McDonald's, and I still just have no idea."

"I hate that." Santana sighs, sipping her own drink slowly now. "I wish I could do something. I wish I could open my own show, and you could have anything you wanted."

"I guess sleeping with people in high places _does_ work." Her laugh is bitter, dark, and Santana's frown deepens.

"No, no, Britt—"

"I know, I know you didn't mean it that way. I love that you love me enough to want that for me. I'm just really, really sad right now."

"Do you want to go home?"

"I don't want to ruin our dinner."

"You're not ruining anything. We can order a pizza, if you're hungry, or take food to go from here. I'd just…I'd really like to be able to hold you. I hate that you're crying and I can't."

"Okay. Okay, yeah. Let's do that. I kind of don't want to sit here crying in front of everyone all night. I mean, I guess if anyone wanted to cast me in _Les Miz,_ I'm putting on a fabulous show."

With a sigh, Santana asks for the check, slipping the waiter her credit card, and tipping him generously for affording them some privacy. Brittany's quiet on the cab ride home, only the occasional sniffle punctuating the din of the driver's talk radio program, buzzing on static AM in the background.

"I'm going to take a shower." Brittany tells Santana as they walk in the door. "I just feel _ick."_

"Do whatever you need to do. I'll call for a pizza."

While Brittany showers, Santana takes off her blazer, and undoes the top two buttons of her blouse, before busying herself getting down dishes for pizza. She needs to, truly, or she'll pull out the White Pages and find this man's phone number so she can give him a piece of her mind. She knows though, that piece of her mind wouldn't do anything but make him laugh at her, and possibly hurt Brittany even greater in the future anyway. But still, it frustrates her. She hates being this helpless, she feels _sick_ that her girlfriend was even put in this position, and truth be told, she feels a little guilty, like, if Brittany had wanted to do _that_ for the sake of saving her career, Santana stood in her way. At that, she shakes her head, sickened by just the thought.

"You got me flowers." Brittany comes into the kitchen through the dining room, towel drying her long hair, and wearing just a tank top and high waisted panties. Her eyes are still swollen and red, but she gives Santana a small smile.

"I…totally forgot about them. I sent you them this afternoon, after I got your message."

"Millie must have put them on my dresser. They're really beautiful. Thank you, I really needed that tonight."

"C'mere." She crooks her finger, and when Brittany steps forward, Santana wraps her arms around Brittany, hugging her as tight as she can. "I love you, Brittany Pierce."

"I love you too. I love you so much." A sob fights its way free of Brittany's throat, and before she knows it, they're wracking her whole body.

Because she knows it's fruitless, Santana doesn't speak. She just holds Brittany close, letting her cry. It's only the second time she's seen this happen, in the seven months they've been together, but it makes her insides twist in discomfort. She could stay like this forever, holding her, keeping her safe—the same thing Brittany does so often for her—but it's the doorbell that interrupts them, making Brittany physically jolt in surprise.

"Pizza." Santana murmurs, and Brittany just nods, following Santana, in sort of a daze, before stopping midway to the door, and sinking into the couch.

"I'm not even hungry. Like, I kinda want a Tylenol and to close my eyes forever." Brittany sighs, when Santana come back in. "Or at least for a week."

"What can I do to make you feel better? Naked massage? Sex on my desk? Ben and Jerry's with gummy bears?"

"You know it's tragic when not even _those_ things would make me feel less craptastic. I just want to dance. I just want to know my dream's not obliterated. I don't know. Maybe I have to do something else. Those who can't do teach, right? I'm sure I could get a job doing that. Cassandra July did, and she was like, an actual train wreck."

"Whatever you choose, you have my support, Britt. But I _do_ think you should sleep on it, take a little time. Get out of the city, even, to clear your head."

"Where am I gonna go? Arizona? I love my parents, but I know them. It'll end up some new age hippie love fest where they cleanse my chakras and make my carry around limes in my bag."

"Limes?"

"Yeah, they, like, suck up all the negative energy and stuff. I bet if you left one on your desk, it'd be hard and black in a day."

"Maybe less, these days." Santana mutters.

"Did something else happen?"

"No, no, it's fine, I mean, same old stuff with the new guy. I don't know, it's fine." Santana shakes her head, then remembers her earlier conversation with Millie. "I mean, I don't know if this is something you'd even want to do, but what if I took a long weekend at work? If we went somewhere, away from here."

"You'd take _time off of work?"_ Brittany's eyebrows shoot up. "Hello, Santana, are you in there?"

"Millie pretty much thinks I'm going to die if I _don't._ " She shrugs, "I don't know, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere, drink piña coladas with umbrellas, I could help you figure things out, take a break from my perpetual murderous rage."

"Piña coladas? What kind of weekend are you talking? Because I have like three dollars in my savings account, and I'll probably use those dollars to buy falafel tomorrow."

"I'm talking about the kind of weekend where I use all the miles I've accrued on my AmEx and take my girlfriend somewhere nice. The kind of weekend where she lets me spoil her rotten, because she _deserves it,_ and she doesn't argue with me about money."

"Hmm, you're lucky your girlfriend doesn't have the _strength_ to argue with you tonight." Brittany closes her eyes, and feels soft lips ghost over the lids, and gentle fingers massage her temples.

"I'll get you the Tylenol and a bottle of water, and talk to a travel agent in the morning, okay?"

"I'm pretty sure right now, the best way to solve my problems is to literally run away from them, so that sounds good to me."


	14. Vacation, Had To Get Away

For eight days, Brittany wallows. Even as Santana presents first class tickets to Acapulco, and leaves brochures about the resort they'll be staying at on the kitchen counter, Brittany finds it hard to get excited. Of _course_ she can't wait to get her bikini on—and see her typically reserved _Santana_ in her beachwear—and drink under the Mexican sun, but the sound of her own thoughts was drowns out the excitement. She's at a loss, truly. The callback for _A Chorus Line_ had built her up so much, even in only a period of hours, so having the rug ripped out from under her in such a humiliating manner is devastating.

Even dancing proves hard for her. For as long as she can remember, that's been her go-to fix. But now, she feels herself pushing back from it. She buries her _Chorus Line_ album deep in the shelf of Santana's records, and instead, sulks and listens to Fleetwood Mac all day, even as Millie encourages her to go outside and get some air. She tries not to show Santana how sulky she is, but Brittany is well aware she knows, well aware that even her touches and kisses are just _sad._

By the time the following Wednesday finally rolls around, Brittany has sort of managed to cheer up, the packing of her warm weather things definitely helping a _lot._ They're going on vacation together, her and her workaholic girlfriend, that's really, really exciting, she needs to remember that. When Santana comes home from work early, unusually smiley, and even, much to Brittany's surprise, with a little hop in her step, she _does._ It's going to be an amazing weekend. Sun, sex, supreme luxury and _Santana,_ career or no career, it's actually a really exciting time.

"JFK please. Take the tunnel this time of day." Santana tells the driver, once they're settled in the back of a cab, their luggage stowed in the trunk. "Alright, Mexico here we come. I don't even care that I had to hear my mother carry on about how I should have had the consideration to let my great-aunt Consuela know that I'd be in the country."

"Yeah, that'd be fun." Brittany rolls her eyes, laughing a little at the face Santana pulls.

"Exactly. All I want in the world is to have five days where I can drown out the sound of everyone's voice but yours. Visiting my mother's _madrina_ is so far off my radar."

"I've gotta say." She lowers her voice considerably. "I'm pretty excited for five days where you speak Spanish regularly."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, totally really."

At the airport, Santana goes back into business mode. Traffic on the Cross Island Parkway makes them later for their flight than they'd planned—though Brittany doesn't point out that still have well over an hour—and Santana taps her foot as they wait to go through the metal detector, frustrated by the woman in front of them who's clearly just seeing her grandson off, and doesn't have a flight of her own to catch. But they make it with plenty of time to spare, and Santana takes her hair down and puts it back up, anxious, once she knows they won't miss it, to get on the flight and order a drink.

"I can't believe we're doing this. I seriously haven't taken a vacation since I started at Chemical. Even after this, I still have a hundred-and-six vacation days banked."

"You say that like it should surprise me." Brittany laughs, pulling Santana's carry on behind her as they line up to board. "So honestly, how stressed out are you about being away?"

"More than anything, I'm worried about Hummel." She sighs. "My threats hardly matter when I'm _there,_ I'm sure they hold no weight while I'm gone. But…what am I going to do?"

"Yeah, you deserve a break from that more than anyone."

"Don't I know it." Santana shakes her head, handing over her boarding pass and passport. "I hope this place is nice."

"I was ready to take a vacation to Tompkins Square Park, I'm _pretty_ sure that Mexico is gonna be totally bitchin'. Holy crap, hello first class!" She gasps, looking around at the front of the plane. "Can I have the window?"

"You, Brittany Pierce, may have whatever you want."

As it turns out, Santana doesn't fly well. Even with the glass of wine she downs about thirty seconds after takeoff, followed by two more, she's like a caged animal on the flight. Under the courtesy blanket the flight attendant had handed her, Brittany finds Santana's hand, lacing their fingers together, and only wincing slightly as nails dig into the back of hers. It's not a particularly turbulent flight, which they're both grateful for. Still though, Santana holds Brittany's hand the entire time, only letting go when they touchdown and attach to the jetway.

Brittany is awe when they get to the hotel, nearly spinning in circles as she looks up at the glass ceilinged atrium. Lavish vacations definitely weren't part of her childhood, her parents would take them to protests and on camping trips instead, so this is the first time she's ever been to a luxury resort like this. Santana assures her that she can look around while she checks them in, smiling at how the smile has come back to Brittany's eyes. Wheeling her suitcase behind her, Brittany takes pictures of everything, of the hotel, of the birds flying inside, of the well lit pool the lobby overlooks, of Santana, presumably speaking in Spanish at the desk. When Santana comes over, room keys and two pink drinks in hand, Brittany grins so wide, and sips from hers as she follows Santana and a bellhop down a lighted path, and out to a private villa.

"I call this room!" Brittany calls out from the master suite—including a _jacuzzi tub—_ while Santana tips the man.

"I _hope_ you plan on sharing it with me." She shakes her head at Brittany jumping on the bed, once they're alone.

"This is _amazing!"_ She jumps off and lands right in front of Santana, who grasps her arms nervously. "Look at this place! Look at the beach! Look at the minibar! Look at this giant bed, which I am totally gonna _ravish_ you on. Like, what's the record for how many times I've made you come in a day? 'Cuz I'm totally gonna beat it this weekend. And I'm not gonna think about my trainwreck of a career 'til Tuesday!"

"Everything about that sounds perfect." Santana kisses Brittany, soft on the mouth. "But considering it's two in the morning, I think we should sleep first."

"Fine." Brittany huffs. "But we're _totally_ sleeping naked,"

"As you wish, baby."

The next morning, they sleep in. Brittany wakes up first, and with a devilish grin, she pulls back the soft sheets and spreads Santana's legs, insistent upon starting Santana's day right. In the coolness of the morning air Santana's nipples peak, and Brittany shimmies down the bed, settling between her legs. Propping herself up on her elbows, she takes a moment to just drink in the sight of the woman before her, in a bath of tropical light. Brittany's not surprised that she can _see_ how wet Santana is, sleeping naked and flush against Brittany usually does that to her, but she _does_ still feel a sense of accomplishment about it. Because of that, she wastes no time, slipping her fingers through Santana's folds and bringing them to her lips, humming satisfaction at the taste.

She watches Santana's reaction to her touch, and when she sees a slow, easy smile spread across her mouth, she knows that she beginning to wake up. Kissing tan inner thighs, she works her way to the apex, using her fingers first, making slow circles against a bundle of nerves, before pressing just the tips of them inside of her. Above her, Santana whines a little, but tries to keep up the charade of remaining asleep. Brittany smirks against a tight thigh muscle, then thrusts her fingers fully inside, before removing them all together. She does that twice more, before Santana begins canting her hips up in an effort to keep Brittany inside of her.

"Wakey wakey." Brittany teases, though her throat is tight with arousal, and she licks a stripe through Santana's center. In response, Santana winds her hands through long blonde locks, and pushes her closer.

"Don't tease." She mumbles, biting the back of her hand. "Y'know 'm sensitive in the morning."

"You?" Brittany laughs, the vibrations making Santana shiver. "Hmmmm, didn't know that."

"Not—ugh—funny." Santana closes her eyes, unable to keep the, open as Brittany closes her lips around her clit, sucking hard. "Fuck me."

"Precisely what I'm doing, Miss Lopez." Brittany lifts her head one final time, seeing Santana with her eyes closed and lips parted, hands still tight on the back of her head. A wanton sight to behold, _always._

Santana comes twice before she has to push Brittany's face away, thinking she'll _explode_ if she's pushed over the edge one more time. Her limbs are jellied and her head is spinning, but she murmurs, sucking her lips into her mouth, for Brittany to lower herself onto her face. It's a trust Santana has never known before, letting herself be so vulnerable like that, but with Brittany, she has all that and more. With Brittany, she can feel trapped between rock hard thighs, her breathing a little difficult, and still know she'll be okay, know she'll be _more_ that okay. She loves that. She loves _her,_ and though she'll never say it out loud, she loves that with Brittany, she can escape get comfort zone, her regimen, if only for a little while.

"So I think." Brittany pants, having rolled onto her side with her nose buried in Santana's hair. "That I'm changing the rules."

"The rules?" Santana furrows her brow, her nose scrunched up, and swollen lips pursed.

"Yeah. I'm counting _total_ orgasms. Because I'm like, pretty sure that I just had, like…three in one, just like, overlapping each other."

"That good?" Dark eyes sparkle, and Santana laughs, the relaxed, post-coital sort of giggle that Brittany can't even express her full adoration for.

"Yeah, that good." She presses her lips to Santana's and tickles her side. " _So_ that good."

Their morning bliss is cut short by a knock on the door, and it's Brittany who gets out of bed for it. Wrapping one of those mega-expensive and mega-soft hotel robes around herself, she closes the bedroom door, leaving Santana still naked and sprawled out in bed, and peeks through the peep hole. Seeing that it's a man in a hotel shirt, she opens it, and he wheels a cart full of breakfast through the door.

"Um…" Brittany twists her hands, confused. "I think you might have the wrong room. We didn't order anything."

" _Si, lo se._ It's included in your package. Traditional Mexican breakfast. Today, it's _chilaquiles_ and localfruit."

"Oh wow, neat. Hold on a sec, lemme just get you a tip."

" _Gracias."_ He nods, and Brittany digs into her bag that she'd tossed aside when they'd come in, wrinkling her nose, and hoping a few crumpled dollar bills is enough.

When he leaves, Brittany lifts the silver lids from the plates, sniffing the food beneath them. She doesn't notice Santana cozy up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist, standing on tiptoes and pressing her chin into Brittany's shoulder.

"Smells good."

"What exactly _is_ it?"

"You say that like a girl who doesn't regularly eat pig intestines."

"My understanding of Chinese cuisine is _much_ better than my understanding of Mexican." She chuckles.

"Sorry, my faux-WASP mother doesn't cook it, so I didn't really learn. But my _abuelita_ obviously does. It's _chilaquiles."_

"Yeah, the guy told me that, but like, what's in it?"

"Fried tortillas, chicken, _salsa verde, queso fresco,_ onions, _crema,_ and obviously, you see the eggs."

"Hmm…" Brittany uses her fingers to pluck a soggy chip from the plate and pops it in her mouth. "Wow, that's really good."

"Yeah." Santana follows suit, and nods her approval. "These are good ones too. So what do you want to do first."

"Get drunk." She lifts the carafe of something both pink and _definitely_ alcoholic, but different from last night, from the tray, smelling that too. "Then I want to swim in the ocean. I've never been in the Pacific before. Actually…I've never been in the Atlantic either."

"For real?" Santana's eyes widen. "How?"

"Beaches weren't exactly the spot for all the hot Vietnam protests. I _have_ been to Washington DC though."

"Well that's something. But we'll have to get you in the Atlantic this summer. Maybe a weekend on Fire Island."

"We could take my bike!"

"We'll…see about that." She shakes her head a little.

"It's sort of an excellent way to get there, I'd assume." Brittany fills both glasses with the drink, handing one to Santana and clinking them together. "To the Pacific Ocean, to our amazing weekend vacation, to orgasms, to Mexico."

"To Mexico." Santana giggles uncharacteristically.

True to her word, Brittany makes sure they finish the entirety of the alcohol—passion fruit, she thinks, though she can't identify the alcohol it's mixed with—and then does a semi-drunken striptease for Santana while she changes for the beach. Once they're both dressed, Santana in a deep v-ed black one piece with a green sarong, and Brittany in her hot pink, barely there bikini, they walk down through the village of huts like their own, and onto the sand. Unpacking towels from her bag, Santana claims two chairs, and orders drinks from the waiter who walks the beach. Brittany wastes no time before splashing into the water, and Santana watches her over the book in her hands, from where she lays in the chair, her face protected from the sun with a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses.

From the turquoise water, Brittany beams at Santana. She's glad for the relative privacy of their hut, she's glad that later, they'll be able to make good use of their private outdoor shower and their hot tub, and mostly, she's glad that Santana is actually relaxed. She's never seen her this way, a Danielle Steel book in her hands, and a copy of People Magazine tucked into the beach bag, her dimples on display, and a drink in her hand. She loves her high strung, control freak girlfriend with all of her heart, but it's good for her health, both mentally and physically, for her to unwind like this,

" _¿Un bebita?"_ Santana calls out to her, standing and holding up her almost empty glass, to indicate what she's saying, and Brittany feels her body heat up at the way the Spanish rolls off her tongue.

" _Si, por favor."_ She answers, grinning at the few words of Spanish that she learned, going for her run with a language cassette every day for the last week. "Margarita."

"Got it! Are you coming out?"

"You _could_ bring it to me, you know."

"Oh could I, Pierce?" Santana gives a cursory glance to her surroundings, deciding she doesn't need to tone down her subtle flirting. "And just what are you gonna do for me?"

"I think you're well aware." Brittany mouths back, and Santana tingles, closing her book and searching around for the waiter.

When she doesn't see him, she looks further, spotting the beach bar a ways down. Pointing it out to Brittany, whose already treading water again, she grabs her wallet from the bag, and throws the sarong around herself before she walks the beach. At the bar, she rolls her eyes at greased up beach rats in neon swim trunks and barely there banana hammocks—cringing at the undesired sight—and adjusts her ponytail while she waits in line for their drinks,

" _Hola chica."_ A muscular blonde sidles up to her, his Midwestern accented Spanish harsh, as he lets his elbow graze the side of Santana's breast. "You're gonna let me buy you this drink, right?"

"I can buy my own, thanks." She brushes him off, feigning sweetness, though her body stiffens, and she'd prefer to immediately lash into him.

"I'm sure you can." His lecherous gaze remains on her chest, and he licks his lips. "So they real or what?"

"Excuse me?"

"The titties. Just wondering. I'll treat 'em real good either way. I'd love to get my face in there, especially while they're all slicked up like that. Mmm, Mmm good."

" _Señorita."_ The bartender calls, snapping Santana out from her speechlessness over just how brazen this guy is. "What can I get you?"

" _Un piña colada y un margarita por favor."_

"You buying _me_ a drink, babe? 'Cuz I'll take a shot of tequila right _here."_ He trails a finger over her left breast, and she backs away, until her spine hits the bar top and she winces in pain.

"No, I'm not. And how about you kindly step away from me before you need a lot less than that Speedo to cover up your balls?"

"Rrrr." He turns his hands into claws and purrs. "Feisty, I like it. You want me to call you _mami?"_

"I want you to back the fuck up, and shut the fuck up." She hisses, anxiety rising in her chest. He doesn't back down, he just keeps checking her out, and though Santana squirms inside, she doesn't give up ground.

" _Señor."_ The bartender finishes Santana's drinks, and sets them with the shots on a tray. "The lady asked you to leave her alone."

"Yeah, so? What's it to you, Paco?"

"It's my job to call security if anyone's getting harassed on hotel property. Ignacio, walk the lady back with her drinks,."

" _Esta bien. No necesitas—"_ Santana starts, but he cuts her off.

" _Sí lo hago."_

" _Muchos muchos gracias."_ She feels a weight lift as a burly young kid comes out from behind the bar, and as a thank you to the man, she leaves a big tip for him when she pays for the drinks.

When she gets back to her spot, Brittany is floating peacefully in the water. Tipping Ignacio for his help, Santana looks around to make sure the idiot from the bar is nowhere around her, and when she doesn't see him, she unwraps her sarong and pads down to the water. With drinks in hand, she lets her toes adjust to the coolness before wading in up to her waist and waiting for Brittany to notice her presence.

"You couldn't get a bigger margarita?" Brittany teases, opening her eyes and seeing the double in Santana's hand.

"Maybe I should have had him fill the bathtub." She takes a sip of her own drink and hands Brittany hers. "Could have used it to knock out a guy at the bar too. I hate men."

"What happened?" Brittany licks salt from the rim, then takes a slurp, eyes never leaving Santana.

"I guess I'm one of two things, a sexless bitch at work, or tits with legs when I'm not. I'm not entirely sure how it's possible to be both."

"I'm totally sure you're actually _neither_ of those things." She scowls, looking in the general direction of the beach bar.

"Yeah, well, tell the guy who hit on me with a Campbell's Soup slogan that." At Brittany's furrowed brow, Santana clarifies. "You know, _mmm, mmm good."_

"Oh my God." Brittany snorts, then shakes her head. "I've hit on a _lot_ of girls, and that's the most lametastic line I've ever heard. What a dickweed."

"I think I bruised my back too, smashing into the bar. You see, this is why I got us a private villa. If I could go the rest of my life without talking to men, I would. I should have been a midwife, or….a women's studies professor."

"You'd be hot in Birkenstocks and flannel teaching at Sarah Lawrence, or Wellesley." Brittany smiles, trying to lighten her mood. "Let your hair go natural, stop shaving your pits. I'm down with all this."

"I guess it's too late to change careers. But I'm telling you, if I'm ever reincarnated, I'm turning TriBeCa into a lesbian colony and shutting all the men out."

"Can I still come? Even though I'm not a lesbian."

"Yeah, you can definitely come. Maybe lesbian colony is the wrong name. All women who love women are invited. Just no men, _please."_

"Sounds good to me. Whatever makes you happy."

The spend most of the day on the beach, Ignacio taking over for their former waiter, making sure their drinks are full, bringing them guacamole and fish tacos and churros throughout the day. When the sun start to sink lower in the sky, and Santana starts to feel itchy from the salt and sand, they start to pack up to leave the beach. Santana looks around, grateful for the guarded access gate on to where their villa is. After showering together, they remain in a comfortable sort of silence, getting ready for dinner, and Brittany smiles when Santana emerges from the bathroom, her skin a deeper bronze from the sun, her hair a mess of curls, and the deep orange of her dress making her almost _glow._

"So this dinner…" She trails off, accepting a kiss on the lips from Santana, and then another on the sunburnt tip of her nose.

"I see what you're getting at, _but,_ I think you'll really enjoy it."

"You've got me _all_ wrong, babe." Brittany kisses her shoulder, then up the column of her neck. "I didn't want to _skip_ dinner, I was just wondering how long before I could have this dress on the floor."

"You are _insatiable."_ Her laugh is met with the poke of Brittany's thumb between her lips and the shrug of her shoulders.

"What can I say? You're a total babe."

"You're the only one who can call me that and it doesn't make me cringe."

"I didn't know that." Perching on the edge of the counter, a crease forms in Brittany's forehead. "You should've told me that. I can _not,_ if it bugs you."

"It doesn't. Not when it's you."

"Okay. Good, 'cuz I totally don't mean it gross."

"I know." Santana nods, running her hands up Brittany's slightly reddened calves. "That's why I like when you do it. And for the record, I think _you're_ a total babe too."

"So dinner in paradise?"

"Absolutely. Dinner in paradise."

As it turns out, like with everything else, Santana has taken the liberty of making their first dinner in Mexico—airport French fries notwithstanding—something special. Though for obvious reasons she can't go full on romance, it does involve a fifteen minute cab ride to a beach cafe down the strip, and an extravagant spread of fresh seafood. Relaxation looks good on Santana, and, Brittany thinks, sipping beer from a bottle looks even better.

"This is _amazing._ I mean, I totally made fun of a dude once for saying he wished he lived in China so he could eat General Tso's chicken every day, _but_ I could live in Mexico so I could eat _this."_ Brittany takes another bite of the ceviche in the center of the table.

"Difference is, this is _actual_ Mexican food. Wasn't General Tso's invented in Brooklyn or something?"

"I dunno, probably? But, I think this is an excellent solution to my problems. Let's run away to Mexico forever. I'll sell seashells by the seashore, you can like, do currency exchange for super expensive hotels. This seems like a win-win."

"Except that you love to dance." Santana tells Brittany softly, hand squeezing her thigh beneath the table.

"So I'll learn to salsa. I could make more of a living doing that here, probably, than I can, apparently, back home." Brittany shakes her head. "Sorry. I said I wasn't going to think and-slash-or talk about my work situation."

"You made the rule, not me. We can talk about it, if you want to."

"I'm just not sure what to do at all. I _hate_ working in the restaurant. Like, I _suck_ so big at it, and I hate how I always smell like egg rolls, and my wrists keep getting burned by hot plates, and…I dunno, I just feel like it's the place dreams go to die. It's weird, you know? Like, it's Robbie's dream to own it, but then he hires all us has-beens, so it's kinda depressing."

"You're not a has-been, Britt."

"Aren't I though?" She spears a piece of octopus. "What are the odds, really, of me getting another role. I mean, short of a piano falling on Rachel Berry and her blacklist, and men ceasing to be gross, they're pretty slim. I pissed off the _wrong_ psycho."

"I hate that."

"Yeah…so do I. I dunno, I mean, whatever, I'll figure it out. I might try to apply for instructor jobs when we get back. It's just hard to let go, I guess."

"Would you keep auditioning for parts if you started teaching?" Santana adjusts the napkin in her lap, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I don't know. Maybe, I guess. If there's a part I'm interested in."

"At the risk of you getting upset with me—" She chances, though she knows it's fruitless. "You know you don't _have_ to work."

"I'm not going to get upset with you, but my opinion on that hasn't changed. It's just not happening." Brittany lowers her voice, glancing around. "I love that you'd take care of me, or, let's be real, that you already _do_ take care of me, with the crappy living I make. But I didn't come to New York to fall in love with a rich girl and sit around eating Bon Bons and watching _General Hospital_ with the maid. You're right, I _do_ love to dance, and I'd love it whether I was on stage in front of thousands of people, or if I was in a studio in front of ten middle aged women. I can't wait tables for the rest of my life on the off chance that I get a real job. I love Robbie, but I hate that damn restaurant."

"Okay." Santana nods. "If that's what you want to do, you know you have my full support."

"Thank you. And hey, it'll _also_ mean that we'll have weekends together, right?"

"That _is_ an added bonus." Her mouth curls up in a small smile, just as the waitress comes over carrying a platter of rice and beans, whole fish, shrimp, and grilled lobster, making Brittany's jaw drop. _"Muchos gracias, Isabella."_

" _De nada, señorita._ Enjoy it _."_

Enjoy it, they do. So much so, that Brittany insists she can't possibly manage dessert—that is, until they walk through the village, and Santana buys two churros and horchata to share between them. When they get back to their little hut, Brittany is nearly bursting with a desire to kiss Santana, and she wastes no time, burying her hands in curly tresses and pulling her close. At the sugar-sweetness on Santana's lips, Brittany smiles against them, chest swelling with love and affection for the woman who's done more for her than she could ever imagine, the woman who second guesses that so much more than she should.

"What?" Santana murmurs, feeling Brittany's lips go slack as she falls deep in thought.

"Just lucky to have you, like _way_ lucky."

"You really liked that dinner, huh?"

"I mean, _duh,_ but mostly, I just really like _you."_

"Mission accomplished then. Really, that _was_ my plan, bring you all the way to Mexico to make you like me."

"You're cute when you're relaxed." Brittany grins. "Like, extra cute. Are you sure you don't want to stay here?"

"I don't think I'd be relaxed here if this was real life. That's the charm of vacation, Miss Pierce. _But,_ it's definitely showed me that I should probably do this more often. I've used three whole days out of that big pile I've accrued, so maybe next trip, we'll have to stay a little longer."

"Back to Mexico?"

"There's a whole world out there, and you want to come back here?"

"What can I say?" She winks. "That dinner was _really_ good."

"Mmm." Santana fingers the strap of Brittany's dress. "How about I make dessert number two even better?"


	15. These Dreams I've Saved for a Rainy Day

Back in New York, Brittany begins her job search in earnest. Half of her is petrified that Rachel Berry has somehow managed to extend her influence to every dance school in the city, that she'll be barred from even teaching dance—it happened once upon a time to Cassandra July, after all, and she was relegated to handling freshman at a then-failing NYADA—but none of the people who interview her seem to let on to that.

For a week, she sits by the phone. Millie teases her a little, trying to make her laugh it off, but mostly Brittany is worried. Mostly, she's unsure whether she'll ever be able to do what she loves again. At this point, despite her applications at NYU's Tisch School of Performing Arts, the American Academy of Ballet, and The Ailey School, Brittany would accept a job choreographing a grade school play somewhere on the outskirts of Queens. She misses dancing, she misses the way music makes her feel alive, and she just needs to get back in it, in any way possible.

Finally, she gets a phone call. She's beside herself when Carl Howell calls her from the Ailey School to schedule an interview, and she can barely hold in her squeal until she gets off the phone. Millie smiles knowingly, ironing one of Santana's blazers, but she doesn't ask, not right away. Brittany knows that Millie figures she'll want to tell Santana first, but still, Brittany gives her two thumbs up, while she waits for Santana to pick up the phone in her office.

Santana Lopez. Santana answers the phone, snappish, almost, and so sexily authoritative.

"I have an interview at three. Ailey called me!" Brittany chirps, stomach tumbling. "A real school, not Miss Mindy's School of Dance for toddlers, but like, a totally legit establishment."

That's amazing. There's a pause on the phone, and a sort of shuffling of papers in the background. It's then that Brittany realizes that there's someone in Santana's office, that she probably has a client, or an employee sitting two feet from her.

"Do you need to call me back?"

I…uh. Is that okay? I'm right in the middle of something, but I can call you back in a half hour.

"I'm actually going to go downtown in a few minutes to get my other jazz shoes from my old apartment. The trains've been running totally mental lately, so I wanna give it more time to get down there and then back up to midtown. And I know you have someone in your office, so I'm going to save you having to figure out a way to say it, I'll be fine, I'm not taking a cab, I love you, and I'll love you even more if you let me meet you tonight at DelMonico's for dinner at 6:15. I'll even take a cab home with you after."

Will do. Good luck.

Hanging up, Brittany is jittery. She didn't tell Santana that she needed her other shoes because they're the lucky ones, but she does. Maybe if A Chorus Line had required a jazz audition, rather than a tap one, she'd have a job now. Maybe she wouldn't have had to give up her dream in her early twenties because she can't seem to break a string of Rachel Berry created bad luck. Or, she guesses, maybe everything happens for a reason, and maybe this is just where she's supposed to be, since those who can't do teach, right?

The train is crowded. The 6 always is, and then the L across town is even worse. Brittany rolls her eyes the whole time, wishing it wasn't raining so she could have taken her bike. She doesn't mind the subway much at all, but when she has somewhere to be at some specific time, it makes her a little nuts to watch the stop and go of it, getting stuck for five, sometimes ten minutes between stations. But it's fine. It's not even noon when she gets off, and she meanders through her old neighborhood, missing it a little, but not enough that she'd rather be anywhere else but with Santana.

When she gets to the apartment, she doesn't even bother to knock. She just grabs the key from above the door frame, and she lets herself in. Upon entry, she calls out her presence, not wanting a repeat of the time she saw Lauren riding a guy on the couch. It's Mike who calls out in response, and much like the day she'd decided to move in with Santana, she finds him laying on his bed. This time though, he's in nothing but his briefs, and Brittany snickers when she opens the door.

"Those are some tighty whities."

"Do you feel how hot it is in here? Or did you forget about the plight of the Lower East Side, now that you moved to a house with central air?" He teases.

"It is pretty hot in here." Brittany loosens her denim shirt. "Where's everyone else?"

"I have no idea, we were out late last night and I wasn't even up when Artie left to film some show in Brooklyn."

"A paid one I hope?"

"Who knows?" Mike gets up out of bed and pulls on a pair of shorts. "So what's up?"

"Not much, I'm just picking up my jazz shoes."

"Do you have an audition?" He asks excitedly.

"Uh…sort of. An interview at Ailey."

"For a teaching job?"

"Yeah, for a teaching job…"

"Why?" He raises an eyebrow, and Brittany crosses her arms defensively over her chest.

"Because I'm sick of being a waitress, and I'm not going to stay home and live off Santana's money."

"Is this because of Chorus Line?"

"No." She huffs. "It's because the same thing's going to happen again and again. I can't count on ever getting a part in a show while Rachel Berry is still alive to make sure I don't."

"So you're just gonna…give up?"

"Why are you judging me?" Brittany snips, frustrated.

"I'm not judging you, I'm just saying you're not even twenty-three. You should be in the prime of your career, and you're just taking some safe path."

"I can't just work in your brother's restaurant and get shit tips and continue to have barely any money on the off chance that maybe someday someone will take a risk and hire some no name chorus girl with a big fat black mark against them."

"You would have a year ago."

"What?" She freezes, stunned by what she knows Mike's accusation is.

"You would have a year ago, that's all I'm saying."

"No, no. That's not what you're saying. You're making this like it's some kind of Santana thing."

"Did I say her name at all?"

"You didn't have to." Brittany huffs, backing away from him. "You think I'm making safe choices because she makes them. Well you're wrong. If I wanted to continue to live my life auditioning for parts I won't get, she'd be the first one to support me. Financially, emotionally, however I need to be supported. But I don't want that. I want a job that I can be proud of, and at least teaching dance will give me that."

"Britt, I'm not trying to fight with you. I just know why you came here, and—"

"I came here to dance, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"Okay but—"

"Where are my shoes?"

"Britt—"

"I said where are my shoes?"

"They're in the hall closet." Mike sighs, resigned to the fact that Brittany won't hear what he's actually trying to say. "Break a leg."

"Yeah. Thanks."

When she leaves, Brittany is pissed. Ever since she moved in with Mike, Artie and the others, Mike has been her closest friend, and her biggest supporter. But this, this doesn't feel like supporting her. This feels like judging her, and after the shit she's been through, and the time it's taken her to make this decision, she doesn't need anyone giving her unsolicited advice.

Of course, Brittany knows Santana makes is careful, mostly, but she also knows that Santana has taken some of the biggest risks of anyone she knows. Santana, a dark-skinned, Latina woman eschewed the safe choice of going to medical school and having a job all but provided for her. She chose her own path, even when it was hard, even when it's still hard today, between the lack of respect from her employees, and the fact that she has to hide her entire identity. Santana likes security, Santana likes boring, but no one can ever say that she got to where she is easily, and no one can ever say that she would expect Brittany to leave her dreams behind simply for security. The opposite is true. Like she'd said, Santana has offered—more than once—to support Brittany, to let her quit her job, to make sure she's fulfilled. But it's Brittany who doesn't want that, it's Brittany who wants a steady check, and health insurance, and guarantee that she can't be fired on a whim. It's Brittany who wants to make a safe choice, and she'll be damned if anyone tries to tell her otherwise.

On the train, Brittany glares. Not at anyone in particular, but she's in a glaring sort of mood, and she can't wait to get off. She can't wait to prove to certain people that this is the right decision for her. That this doesn't mean she can never go on another audition, but that she doesn't have to sit around spilling Chinese food all over the place and feeling miserable while she waits for one to come along that will be the right one. Teaching might not be a lot of money, but it'll damn sure be more than she's making now, and it'll mean maybe, maybe she can actually buy something nice for Santana for once. It'll mean maybe she can actually be the one who takes her on a date, and not constantly the other way around.

When Brittany gets to midtown, she looks around at the billboards for the the theater. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a pang in her chest at the poster for A Chorus Line, legs lined up in a row, a pair of which could have been hers. She'd be lying if she said she didn't regret ever working on Rachel Berry's show. She can't regret standing up for Sugar, but she can absolutely regret the fact that she was there in the first place. She shakes her head, and walks a little further uptown, reminded of just how lucky she is when she passes a prostitute, stockings torn and makeup smudged, propositioning a man in a dingy blue polo. She's reminded again when a guy offers to sell her smack, and another asks her for money to buy it. Santana hates Times Square for this very reason, but Brittany, she's used to the nitty-gritty of the city, and she takes her time, before she reaches the side door entry of Ailey and rings the buzzer.

"Brittany Pierce." She speaks into the intercom. "I have an interview with a Mr. Howell."

"Come on up. Please take your shoes off and wash your hands before you enter the office." A squeaky voice replies.

"Uh, yeah, sure, totally."

Taken aback by the weird request, Brittany checks herself before pulling open the door, and climbing the three flights of stairs. Outside the door reading Carl Howell, The Ailey School, there's a bag dispenser and a line of storage bins on the wall with a sink beside them. Shrugging, Brittany slips off her shoes and zips them into a bag, before storing them in a bin, and washing her hands, twice, as the sign reads. So maybe Carl is a little eccentric, Brittany thinks, he definitely wouldn't be the first eccentric dancer she ever met.

"Good afternoon." The mousy redhead at the desk inside the door chirps. "Did you wash your hands twice?"

"Just like the sign said." Brittany nods, unsure if she should touch anything, or sit down.

"Alright, good. You can go have a seat, Carl will be right with you."

"No need for her to sit, Emms." A mulleted guy in a rolled-up turquoise shirt and bike shorts struts out from behind a closed door. "But there is need for you to gimme some sugar."

"Carl." The redhead, Emms, Brittany supposes, giggles. "Not while someone's in the office."

"This ain't nothin' you haven't seen before, right?"

"No, sir." Brittany shakes her head quickly, and Carl kisses the receptionist. Brittany hopes this isn't some kind of creepy thing, where he has a wife at home and makes out with his secretary. She really doesn't want to be privy to that.

"Hey, one rule around here. No one calls me sir."

"Okay…you got it…dude?" She chances, unsure what else to say.

"Hmm…that sounds vaguely familiar." He shakes his head, like he's trying to place where from. "Anyway, I like that, and I like you. C'mon back to my office, let's see if I like what else you've got to offer."

"Um…" Brittany slowly back away, remembering the last part of her audition. "No thanks, I don't want this job that bad."

"Hey, hey. Babe, relax. You think I'd be propositioning you with my wife sitting right there? I'm talking about your dancing, but if it'd make you more comfortable, Emma'll come back with us."

"Oh." Heat creeps up Brittany's neck, and her face and ears flush deep red. "Sorry…"

"I've been in this industry a long time, and I know what you gals have to hear from creepy old pervs. You don't need to be sorry for expecting that, but we don't roll like that here. Legitimate, totally above bar school. No funny business."

Denying the invitation for Emma to join them if she was still uncomfortable, Brittany follows Carl back to his "office." It's more like a stack of papers strewn and spilling over a TV table, and a big dance floor, walls covered with pictures of Carl in spandex and sequins. Brittany lets her eyes wander over them for a moment, before her posture straightens, and she waits for him so say something.

"So, are you a current Broadway dancer, a recovering Broadway dancer, or something in between?" He asks, thumbing through what looks like her resume.

"Um…" She considers the question for several seconds before she answers it, unsure what the best choice is to say. "Something in between, I guess. I'm not saying I'll never audition for a part again, I'm still in the union, anyway. But I want something more stable."

"Why?" He licks his finger and turns the page. "Looks like you've got some swanky digs, kiddo."

"Oh, my address? I live with my g—partner, I'm not the one paying the mortgage on that place."

"Sounds like some gahpartner."

"I mean…yeah, a banker's no joke of a job." Brittany shrugs, blush creeping higher and higher up her neck. It's probably not a big deal, it never really is in her line of work, but still, she does prefer to avoid outing herself, at least in the first interview. "Anyway, yeah, so, I dunno, I don't really foresee myself auditioning for anything in the near future. I want to teach."

"And you have no experience teaching dance?"

"Well…I mean I've helped people with the steps at auditions and stuff, but no. I just do dance, so I think I can teach it."

"Alright." Carl snaps his fingers. "Lemme see whatcha got."

"Genre?"

"Whatever you got. Did you bring music?"

"I did." Brittany opens her bag and rifles through, pulling out, finally, a recorded cassette of Almost Paradise. "So, I'm gonna start with this."

Brittany dances. She lets her hair down, and she dances her heart out, and then she flips the tape to Footloose on the flip side. So there's a theme to her audition, it doesn't surprise her. She and Santana have seen the movie three times—Santana really loves her, if she didn't know that before, the fact that she's seen a Kevin Bacon movie three times when she can't stand Kevin Bacon just ices the cake—and it makes her confident in her abilities as a dancer. When the second song is over, Carl nods, and Brittany pulls her hair back up, barely breathless, before she struts back over to him.

"You've got some moves, kid."

"Thanks." Lifting her one shoulder, Brittany half shrugs.

"Look, I know what your last job was, and I know that no one leaves a still-running Rachel Berry production, no matter how bad it is, unless they're asked to leave."

"I—"

"Eh." He holds up his hand. "I'm not holding it against you. I'm sure it was for a lame reason, like you wore the wrong color nail polish, or you looked Medusa directly in the eye. You wouldn't be first I've fired that have crossed her and you won't be the last."

"So you're gonna hire me?"

"There's a but. I'm gonna hire you, but not for the position you applied for. You're young, I need to see that you can actually teach. I've got some extension classes starting that need a teacher. Prove yourself there, and I'll give you a real job."

"Extension classes?"

"Yeah, you know, middle-aged people, maybe some fit seniors, college kids who want to get a workout without risking their life jogging in Central Park."

"So…like Jazzercise?"

"Jazzercise is a name brand, we can't use it…but yeah, like Jazzercise. We're trying it out, using the revenue for a scholarship fund."

"And I just need to put on bright colored spandex and a sweatband and teach a bunch of old people to dance?"

"That's it."

"How much does it pay?"

"I'll give you two-hundred bucks a week."

"Oh." Brittany bites back the really? on her tongue. Considering she's lucky if she makes a hundred after her crappy tips at the restaurant, that's a lot, and she's kind of giddy.

"Are you trying to play hardball with me? I'm not starting you any higher than that, but I'll tell you what, gimme six months, and we'll reevaluate."

"Okay, fine." She nods. "I'll take it."

"You don't need to talk to your gahpartner first?"

"Nope. This is all me. When do I start?"

"Monday morning, eight-am class, I'll train you."

"Awesome! Thank you s—dude."

Nearly skipping out of the office, Brittany shoves her feet back in her shoes and double-steps down the stairs. She's kind of beside herself that he offered her a real, livable salary. This might not be exactly what she wants to do, but it's a chance, a chance that might lead to the opportunity to teach people like she was three years ago, when she came to New York, all wide-eyed, and ready to take on the world. Maybe her dream is dead, or sleeping, or whatever it is right now, but if she can help even one other person actually live it, then maybe it'll be enough.

Brittany has time, so she walks all the way downtown. She just steps up in front of the restaurant, when she sees a cab pull up in front, and Brittany is sure it's Santana. It might only be a few blocks from the bank, but she hates walking in the rain. When a black umbrella pokes out first, Brittany smiles, her suspicions confirmed. Unmoving, she watches her emerge, graceful and poised, grey pumps followed by a pencil shirt to match, and a black trench coat, untied and revealing a low cut yellow blouse. She licks the dryness from her lips, and steps forward, watching a slow smile spread across Santana's mouth as she sees her.

"Hey you. Perfect timing? Or have you been waiting?"

"I know you're always right on time, so I planned." Brittany teases a little, then wiggles her eyebrows. "And I'm currently regretting that I didn't wake up a little early, seeing you in this outfit."

"Britt." Santana shakes her head laughing, as she closes the umbrella and steps in the door Brittany holds open for her. "So…?"

"So….what?"

"How was it?"

"Name, please?" The maitre'd interrupts them.

"Lopez, party of two."

"Oh! So, I got a job!"

"You did?" Her head tilts to the side, this soft, subtle look of adoration that Santana often gives her in public written across her face. "Oh, Brittany, I'm so proud of you."

"Well…" Brittany sits in the seat that the maitre'd pulls out for her, then waits for Santana to take off her coat and sit as well. "It's not exactly the job I applied for. It's more like…a dance aerobics teacher."

"At Ailey?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's some new thing they're doing, I guess. Carl—that's my new boss—I think he thinks I'm too young, and maybe he thinks I'm gonna leave if somehow, miraculously, someone wants to hire me, but he said he'd give me a shot doing this, and then we can talk."

"So you took it, right?" Santana unfolds her napkin in her lap, and Brittany searches her face, trying to get a read on what she thinks. She loves this woman, but damn is she good at concealing her emotions.

"It's two-hundred bucks a week, so yeah, I did. It's like…not what I thought or anything, but it's better than being in the restaurant, and it could maybe, possibly lead to a better job, so…"

"Brittany?"

"Uh-huh?" She cocks her head to the side, and she feels the barely there touch of Santana's fingers dancing on her thigh beneath the table.

"You know you don't have to explain your choice to me, right? I told you I support you no matter what you do, and that remains true."

"I…" Brittany hesitates for a moment, then lowers her voice to barely a whisper. "I like, really needed that, and I love you."

"I do too." Santana nods. "And I'm still really proud of you. Wine, or champagne?"

"You really like to celebrate with champagne."

"I know I do. But tonight's your night, which do you want?"

"I can't believe we're celebrating not getting the job I wanted."

"We're celebrating you on your way up. We're celebrating that smile on your face, because I really, really missed it."

"I hadn't even realized…" She shakes her head a little. "You really know me better than anyone. You see me, and you're my best friend."

"I'm your best friend too?" The way Santana's breath catches makes Brittany's heart ache. There's just something about the way that she never things she's good enough that makes everything inside of Brittany burn, burn with pain for that falter, burn with this desire to make her know, forever and ever.

"Of course you are." Brittany just shrugs, the easiest answer in the world. "Let's get some champagne."

Santana orders it, some brand that sounds particularly fancy, though Brittany doesn't know the difference. They toast, and Brittany gives a goopy sort of smile, just knowing that this, this is perfect. She's really in love with Santana Lopez, her gahpartner, apparently. Later, she'll tell her how annoyed she is at Mike, later she'll tell her how she's kind of a little bit nervous. She'll tell her when they're lying in bed, Brittany probably in just her underwear, noses pressed together, and her palm cupping Santana's silk covered ass. Later, there'll be time for things to be worried about, but now, right now, she feels the champagne bubbles tickle her nose, and more than anything, she feels Santana's smile, she feels his proud she is of her.

"I didn't even ask how your day was." Brittany remembers, after they've already finished their Lobster Newburg appetizer, and she's started her second glass of champagne.

"That's okay, it was nothing exciting. I had back to back meetings all morning, trying to handle some residual second quarter stuff, even as we're already gearing up for fourth quarter."

"Isn't that like…months away?"

"October." She nods. "But…there's a few things I need to do just as it starts, so I'm trying to be prepared to take a few days off."

"Um…why?"

"Well, I—"

A high-pitched male voice beside them interrupts her sentence, and Brittany watches her entire body language change. Her hand immediately jumps from Brittany's thigh, and her back stiffens. She looks like the Santana on their first date, the Santana who comes out around the Lopezes. Banker Santana, skittish Santana, so different from her Santana. Slowly, Brittany cocks her head to see a boyish faced man in a suit, and she watches as he catches sight of Santana, and he seems to shrink in the same sort of way that she does. Across from him, there's a burly man, in a neatly pressed Oxford, and Brittany understands immediately why his reaction is the same.

"Good evening, Ms. Lopez." He nods, his voice impossibly higher than it had been before he'd spoken directly to her.

"Hello, Hummel." Santana's own voice is tight and strained, making Brittany ache to squeeze her hand beneath the table. "Celebrating your promotion, I presume?"

"I am. My dad said he heard this was the nicest restaurant in the city, so…"

"I enjoy it." She purses her lips, and looks at the man who sits across from him. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hummel."

"Oh…no, I'm not Kurt's father. I'm his…friend, David, David Karofsky."

"It's nice to meet you, David." Santana stands up, still stiff, and extends her hand. "This is my—"

"Her friend, Brittany." Brittany takes the initiative, knowing that it pains Santana to have to downplay their relationship. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Brittany is certain that the two men beside them are on more than just a friendly dinner, but still, she'd never question it out loud, still, she'd never expect Santana, in a position of authority—and in a situation that could risk her career—to reveal anything about them. Presumption is one thing, but confirmation, that's something else entirely. "We're celebrating my new job."

The rest of dinner is uncomfortable. Santana barely says three words, she simply casts nervous glances at the table beside them. Brittany hates that she can't comfort her, Brittany hates that what she wants more than anything in the world is to gather her into her arms and tell her it's going to be okay, but that's the exact opposite of what would help. She looks around the restaurant instead, trying not to put too much focus on Santana, trying not to look at her in a way that will reveal anything about their relationship. She looks around the restaurant, and all she can think is how everything is so totally and completely unfair.

She's not like this, usually. Brittany has seen the bright side of things her whole life, but as she looks around, she feels so…sad. Thats the one word she can think of to describe how she feels. Sure, she's angry, sure, but sad seems to encompass it more. She's sad as she looks around the restaurant and sees other couples. She sees women holding out their fork to feed their male dates. She sees men pull out the chair for their female ones, offer them their jackets because it's chilly in here. She sees kisses on the backs of hands and lingering glances. She sees wedding rings and hand holding. She sees the things that are just so foreign in her world, because she's in love with another woman, and she's not in the bubble of her theater community, where it's a whole lot more accepted to be the way she is. She wouldn't trade Santana for anything in the world, but right now, seeing her like this, it hurts like hell.

When they leave the restaurant, Brittany walks two blocks before she hails a cab. Santana doesn't question it, she just follows her, a silent sort of understanding. She doesn't talk the whole way home, she doesn't talk when they get inside, and Brittany, knowing what she needs, gives her space. She lets her sit in her office, smoke a cigar, and drink a whiskey on the rocks, and she goes into her studio, dancing, dancing, until the look on Santana's face at the restaurant isn't burned behind her eyes any longer.

The light is off in the office, when Brittany is finished dancing, and when she hears the shower running in their bathroom, she uses the one in the hall to take hers instead. When she finally ends up in the bedroom, it's dark, illuminated only by the dim glow that comes through the window, and Santana is on her side, curled into herself. It's hard for Brittany to see that, it always is, but she pulls a Heart t-shirt over her head, and she crawls into bed beside her. She debates, for a moment, whether or not to touch her, until she hears a sniffle, followed by another, and another, and she can think of nothing else to do but press herself into Santana's back and wrap her arms tightly around her. This is the worst, when Santana cries, whether it's over her family, or a terrible day at work, or this…this feeling of absolute defeat in the world.

"Babe." She whispers. "I love you the most."

"I—" Santana hiccups, and she shakes her head against the pillow, crying harder. "So stupid."

"What's so stupid?"

"That I'm such a fucking coward."

"Protecting yourself, and your job, and your livelihood doesn't make you a coward. If that's the case, than I'm a coward too."

"No you're not. You always…you—" She gasps for breath, and Brittany holds her closer. "You're not ashamed."

"Oh, Santana. I wasn't taught that I'm supposed to be. If it makes you feel any better, today I called you my gahpartner in my interview. I almost said girlfriend, and then I just…didn't."

"You always tell people." Santana murmurs, sniffling some more.

"I won't, if it bothers you."

"I don't mean it like that. I wish I could. But you…why didn't you?"

"Because for the first time, I was trying to get a real job. Carl was like…totally groping his assistant right in front of me, he wasn't flirting with other male dancers, or giving any kinda clues that he was down with the lesbos, so I just…didn't. I understood more than ever why you have to keep your personal life so close."

"If you don't want to…"

"I do. I want this job, Santana. Even if I have to keep quiet about us, like you do, I want this. I've told you this before, that—"

"I love you and you love me." Santana pushes back into Brittany, parroting the words she's used before. "And nothing's gonna change it."

"Exactly. Babe, I hate when you're sad."

"Sometimes I don't know how not to be."

"I know." She kisses Santana's temple, and lets her lips linger there. "It makes me really, really sad too, 'cuz you deserve everything, and I can't always give it to you, but getting to be in your bed every night, is worth it to me."

"I love you a lot, Britt. More than anything in the world."

"Me too, Santana. Me too."


	16. Cover Me When I Walk Alone

The next day at work, Santana can't look Hummel in the eye. Last night, she didn't really sleep, tossing and turning, listening to the sound of Brittany's soft breathing, listening to the hammering of her own pounding heart. She's stripped bare in the darkness, even when she isn't naked. The stilettos, the tailored ladies' suits, the makeup, the jewelry, the fake smile, the trappings of her feigned heterosexuality are all buried away. She's just _her_ in the darkness, she's just her, for better or for worse.

Each day, the hardest thing she does is put on her costume. It's not the clothing, necessarily, but what comes with it. It's the idea of sitting at that desk, and forcing a smile when Terri tells her uncomfortable stories about her sex life. It's laughing off every time someone asks her when she's going to get hitched. It's trying not to cry when she catches wind of whispers about her being a _man-eater,_ or worse, a _dyke._ It's seeing the other bankers, with pictures of heir wives and kids on their desk, and knowing she could never proudly set a picture atop her own. It's a yearning, an _ache_ to be who she is, and every day, it guts her from the inside out.

She keeps to herself for most of the morning. There are no meetings on her schedule, and lucky for her—the first time in her time at Chemical that she won't complain about it—Terri is out sick. She sits at her desk, checking over accounts, soaking up the silence, when there's a knock on her door.

"Come in!" She calls out, and smoothes her blazer, sucking in a breath when Hummel opens the door. "What do you need, Hummel?"

"I…" He fidgets with the paper in his hands, and Santana thinks she can see his hands trembling. It makes her stomach bubble, and she presses her palms together beneath the desk. "I came to give you my resignation."

"Excuse me? Your _resignation?_ Are you that unhappy here?"

"No. No. You've been incredibly helpful, with…you know, the guys and all, I just—I figured it would look better for me to resign, than for you to fire me."

"Fire you? What the hell did you do, Hummel? Get me got goddamn ledger."

"My ledger is fine. You can check it, if you'd like." He shakes his head, and lowers his voice to barely a whisper. "I'm talking about last night. I understand that—"

–

"Hummel." Santana inhales deeply, heart pounding in her chest. He doesn't know about her. If he did, he would never assume that she'd fire her. If he did, he'd have some sort of leverage over her. He assumed she was out with a friend. The thought of it makes her queasy, but she doesn't say a word of that. She _can't_ say a word of that, not here, where Terri DelMonico lurks outside of the door half the day, itching for gossip, where Hudson or Schuester could burst in her door unannounced at any given moment—if only Terri would do her damn job. She can't say a word, because she spends every day of her life living with the very same fear that's in Kurt Hummel's eyes at this exact moment. "I'm not firing you for your personal life. Frankly, it's none of my damn business, so long as you do your job here."

"Thank you." He breathes out, eyeing her with caution. "Oh, thank you so much."

"You have no need to thank me." Santana crosses her legs, then uncrosses them, considering the weighty idea that presses on her chest. "So long as you keep it between you and I, I'd like to invite you to dinner."

"What?" His eyes widen.

"You're under no obligation to say yes, but you're the only person in this place who I can actually tolerate, and I know times aren't exactly easy these days…" She trails off, not wanting to say too much.

"Um, yeah…yes, I mean, that would be…really nice."

"You're welcome to bring David with you, if you'd like too. How's Saturday night?"

"That would be…thank you, yes, that would be good."

Hummel leaves the office, and Santana exhales sharply. She looks at the phone on her desk, and considers calling Brittany, before she remembers that she's teaching her first class, and she won't be home from work until after Santana herself is, probably.

Sighing, she goes back to her accounts. She spends the afternoon behind her closed door, alone with her numbers. Fifteen minutes before the bank closes, she walks the floor, avoiding eye contact with any of her employees. She's exhausted, it's been a long day, mentally, emotionally, and she's ready to get into her pajamas and watch _The Facts of Life_ with Brittany. So she stands at the door as they file out one by one. She goes with security to lock up the safe. She pulls her coat around herself, and goes outside to hail a cab.

The house is nearly dark when she gets home, only the front window lamp that Millie turns on before she leaves glowing inside. Santana turns the key, and she slips her shoes off inside the door, tucking them into the front closet. Though she barely walked the floor today, her feet ache from being trapped inside her leather heels, and she rubs them, before she goes into the kitchen. Millie left a casserole on the counter, and Santana preheats the oven before she opens a bottle of wine and pours herself a generous glass.

Unbuttoning her blouse, Santana sits at the table. Brittany had left the copy of Life magazine that she'd been reading when they'd had breakfast, and rather than pick up her own newspaper, Santana picks of the glossy magazine. Flipping past the cover of Daryl Hannah in her bathing suit, Santana skims the article about her, catching only a bit about a new movie where a man falls in love with a mermaid. It's an odd sensation, the break from her constantly racing mind, but there's something to be said for reading the mindless magazine, and when Brittany walks into the kitchen, Santana is completely engrossed.

"Shoulda known if I left the hot blonde on the table, you'd pick her up." Brittany laughs, tossing her duffle bag down on a chair.

"What? No. I was just…reading."

"I'm kidding, babe." She leans over and gives Santana a lingering kiss. "Smells good in here."

"Millie made a casserole." Santana shrugs, smiling at how giddy Brittany looks. "So, how was your first day? Tell me everything."

"It was…good. Different, I guess, since no one is trying to kill me so they can take my spot, but I did like it. Plus, it's so much money, and that makes it better."

"Brittany, you know—"

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes. "I know I don't have to work for the money, and I also know I don't want to have this argument again. I like it, and the old people are way cute. It's good, I'm happy there."

"Then I'm happy too." Santana nods, and pulls her hair loose from her tight bun. "Sorry I started drinking without you."

"Bad day?" Brittany sits down and takes a sip from Santana's glass, shaking her head at the bitterness of the chianti.

"Not bad, just long. I had some things to catch up on, and then Hummel tried to quit on me."

"What? Why? Is it those assholes? Because—"

"No. It was me, actually."

" _You?"_

"I guess not me, really, just that he thought I was going to fire him for being…homosexual."

Brittany snorts, then looks back at Santana feeling bad for her laugh, "Sorry, it's just, that's kind of ironic."

"Tell me about it." She takes a long swig of her wine. "I…guess I should be grateful I've done so well hiding it."

"You don't sound that way." Brittany rests her hand on top of Santana's, and Santana observes the contrast between Brittany's light fingers and her own dark ones.

"No, I'm…glad for that. It's my _career,_ which I worked my whole life for. I'm sorry, I want to hear more about your day."

"Santana, I teach old people how to dance without breaking a hip, Carl is nice and doesn't come on to me, it's nothing that can't wait. You seem sad today."

"I'm not. I promise you that. It was just emotionally draining, thinking about Hummel, and how…I don't know, he was afraid of me, like I'm one of _them._ I…invited him over for dinner on Saturday. I'm not sure what made me do that, but I did. He's just a kid—"

"Is he that much younger than me?" Brittany laughs, kissing Santana's temple.

"I guess not. But still, you don't _feel_ young."

"Gee, thanks. Remind me I need to show you how young and flexible I am tonight." She waggled her eye brows and stretches out her pink Lycra clad arms.

"I _am_ a fan of you in that leotard. But…you know what I mean. You're _you,_ and those morons at the bank harass him. I feel protective or something. It's stupid, I know."

"I think it's mega awesome. Seriously, and I can go meet up with Mike and Artie or, like, tag along to Tina and Lauren's bowling league."

"You're _sure_ they're not a couple?" Santana raises an eyebrow.

"Definitely not. I mean, even though they asked me if we wanted to join with them, but I know sharing shoes isn't really your _thing._ "

"It's not, but…we can talk about it if it's something you want to do." Santana shakes her head, reminding herself where she was in the conversation. "But back to what we were talking about. I'd like you to _stay,_ Britt, if you wanted to. And I mean _really_ stay, as my girlfriend who lives with me, and who I love."

"With someone from your _job?_ Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She nods. "I'm sure. Why? Do you think I made a really terrible mistake?"

"Hey." Brittany perches on the edge of the table, and takes Santana's face in her hands. Santana looks into her eyes, and takes a deep breath, the intensity overwhelming her. "I think it's really neat. I'm not judging you, or thinking it's a bad idea, babe. I just want you to not feel all…crazy inside."

"I perpetually feel all _crazy_ inside."

"I know. But it'll be fun. Can I make a seven layer dip? Have you ever _had_ my seven layer dip? I mean…sometimes it's six or five layers, because I forget an ingredient when I'm in the grocery store, and then _psht_ I'm not going back out…but anyway, it's _so_ good."

"Brittany." Santana laughs.

"What?"

"Nothing, you just make everything so much less…intense. You can make anything you want. I'll probably just do takeout, but your dip sounds good. Leave what you need on the list for Millie, you know, so you have everything."

"Sweet!"

"Now sit, I'll get the casserole out, and really, I want hear _everything_ about your first day!"


	17. I Reach Out From the Inside

Before Brittany even gets out of bed on Saturday morning, she can tell that Santana is a nervous wreck about Kurt Hummel coming to dinner. It's a major boundary being crossed for her, Brittany is well aware of that, but she hates that she can't help. She hates, even more than that, probably, that when she tries to pull Santana back down into bed, tries to kiss her and touch her until she forgets to feel how she does, Santana brushes her off, and stands in front of her closet for at least forty-five minutes, not touching anything, just staring into it.

The ulcers are what concerns Brittany most of all. Whether it's stress at the bank, or dinner with her parents, or a comment by someone on the street, Brittany constantly fears that she'll walk in on her girlfriend hurling blood…or worse. Brittany herself is not a nervous person. Maybe it's her hippie upbringing, in contrast to Santana's rigid Catholic one, or maybe they're just wired differently inside, Brittany isn't sure, and she's not even sure it _matters_ why, but she certainly knows that it makes it hard for her to relate, and even harder for her to know the right things to say.

So she gets out of bed. For a fleeting second, while Santana is pulling the comforter taught, Brittany considers making breakfast. But seeing how Santana is, she knows that will be a huge mistake. She knows that the mess will drive Santana into such a dither that she might not recover. Instead, she goes into the kitchen, and she turns on the coffee maker, already filled and ready to go. Then she goes out to the front steps, and she brings in the newspaper, shaking out the water that coats the plastic bag that holds it. She sets it beside Santana's empty mug, and she paces around.

Finally, Brittany decides she'll go _get_ breakfast. Taking five dollars from the jar on the counter, she slides into her well-worn chucks, and she grabs her coat. Santana is somewhere else, at least emotionally, and Brittany is fairly certain she won't even notice that she's left. In the rain, she pads down the wet sidewalk, pulling up her hood to keep herself dry. When she walks into the bodega, it's busy, and while Brittany waits to order egg sandwiches and home fries, she peruses the store, trying to remember whether or not they have milk in the house.

She gets it just in case, and once the sandwiches are finishes, she walks home. When she turns the key and gets inside, she hears Santana on the phone, and she doesn't even have to listen to the words she's saying to judge who she's talking to by the tone of her voice. It's flat, submissive, almost, and it makes Brittany squirm with discomfort. She wishes there were some sort of magic phones that could tell Santana who's calling before she picks it up. Santana _never_ screens her calls, always worried it's the bank, or something more vitally important even than that, but when her mother calls, Brittany watches her shrink down to half her size, watches every muscle in her body tense with displeasure.

When Brittany goes into the kitchen, Santana is at the table with her coffee mug in hand. The phone cord is stretched taught from her counter, and her knuckles are white where she grips the handle, and the newspaper lay hurriedly folded in front of her. She doesn't meet Brittany's eyes, and Brittany puts the bag on the table quietly. She won't open it up now, she won't risk Santana's mother hearing that she's here, and she sinks down into her seat, picking at the cuticles of her thumbs while Santana gives monosyllabic answers to her mother.

"I'm working that Saturday." She thumb over her chin as she says it, a tell-tale sign that she's lying. "I'll see what I can do, but—No, I understand, I just—I know Carlos is going, but—I'm going to—Okay, okay—Yes—Okay, I'll talk to you soon—You too."

"God-fucking-damnit." Santana huffs after she stands to put the phone back down in its receiver.

"Are you okay, babe?"

"No, Brittany, honestly, I'm not. I swore I wasn't going to go this time. I swore I wouldn't let myself be coerced and guilted into going, but of course, here we are."

"Um…where do you have to go?"

"To my Aunt Alessandra's sixtieth birthday party in Huntington next month. As per usual, I'll be stuck in a kitchen full of women who couldn't care less that I'm the youngest female to ever hold my position at Chemical, and the _only_ one who looks like me and ask me in twelve different ways when I'll be getting married. Whatever, being a trail blazer doesn't matter with them."

"I…wish I knew what to say to you to make it better."

"Nothing. I was born fucked up, so it's not like you could go and change it. I've accepted that this is what I am, so…" Santana twists her hands in front of her, and hurt crosses Brittany's face. Sometimes, when Santana's self-loathing rears its ugly head, Brittany feels…strange inside, like she's a consolation prize, like Santana wishes she weren't in love with her, like she'd rather be anyone but who she is, even if it meant giving up Brittany. "No, Britt, I didn't mean—"

"I know." She shakes her head. "Still kinda hurts though."

"Brittany—"

"I'm not going to have an argument right now. You're obviously way upset, and I won't be the one who makes it worse."

"Well _you're_ obviously upset too." Santana crosses her arms over her chest. "And I want to talk about it."

"It's whatever, Santana. Me talking about it won't change anything, so there's no point."

"Suddenly you're pissed at me because I'm not out, is what I'm getting here."

"Wow." Brittany gets to her feet, knocking her knee against the table and hissing. "You want to do this? Fine. First of all, I'm not pissed. Second, it has _nothing_ to do with you not being out. Has that ever been a fucking issue for me? I don't give a shit who knows about us, I'm happy just being with _you._ Happier than I've ever been in my life. But yeah, maybe it makes me feel like shit when you make it like being who you are is the most awful fucking thing to ever happen to you."

"When did I even _say_ that?"

"You didn't have to. I hear it all the time. Look, I know that I'm lucky I have a family who supports me, and I know that has made it a hell of a lot easier to be comfortable with myself. But every time you wish you were straight, it kind of feels like you're wishing me away."

"I'm not—" Santana shakes her head, and Brittany is taken aback by the tears that spring to her eyes. "It's not _you,_ it's _me._ I don't—I'm not wishing you away. God. I don't even know what I'm trying to say. You're not the best of a bad situation, you're just the best, period. Every goddamn time I talk to my mother she just—I _love_ you, Brittany. You're the only thing in my life that always makes me feel good, and if I mess this up—"

"You won't." Brittany softens, Santana's anguish hitting her in the gut. "Just because I'm upset doesn't mean I'm leaving you."

"I just want to be accepted by my family. I want to be able to walk down the street holding your hand. I want to be able to go to work functions and not hear people muttering how I'm a frigid bitch because I never have a date. I hate that I have to hide out in our house, or in dark bars, because people knowing who I am could destroy me." She shakes her head and clenches her fists. "And it makes me so damn angry that I'm acting like this over _bullshit,_ when men are dying in the streets and my father snickers about it over dinner! Fuck!"

"Come here."

"No, I—"

"Come here." She repeats, opening her arms to a trembling Santana, who fits herself into them. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Santana mumbles into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry that you hurt, and I'm sorry the world is super shitty, and I'm sorry you're afraid, and have good reason to be."

"I'm really so lucky to have you."

"Yeah, you kinda are." Brittany laughs a little. "But I think I'm lucky to have you too. I know you're really nervous about tonight."

"It's just dinner. It's…whatever it is."

"I liked him. Maybe it'll be good, knowing someone at work is on your side for once. I mean, really, you work with a bunch of idiots."

"Tell me about it. Hummel's a nice kid though, it's just not like me to do anything like this. I'm branching out of my comfort zone, I guess."

"And you're still sure—"

"I promised you that I'd never invite anyone into this house, outside of the obvious, that I would hide you from. I'm not…comfortable with PDA or anything, you know that about me, but I'm not going to introduce you as my roommate, or my sister or anything."

"It would be a really hard sell, convincing anyone to believe we were sisters."

"Fair point. But you know what I mean."

After breakfast, Brittany goes outside to tinker with her bike. If she's being perfectly honest with herself, she needs a little break from Santana. It's not that she doesn't love her more than she's ever loved anyone in the world, it's just that sometimes her _heaviness_ is a lot, and she needs time away from it. So she plays with her bike, tightening lug nuts and polishing it until it shines in the sun. She thinks maybe she's the only person on the block who _owns_ a motorcycles, and that she's sort of a downtown outcast among the elitist snobs, but she'll take being a downtown outcast, she'd _rather_ be the hippy kid that grew up among people who told her to shine bright, than hide her shine away, because some people don't think it's okay.

When she finishes all she wants to do, she goes back in the house. Santana is in her office, doing some kind of work, and she knocks on the door softly, waiting for her to look up. There's a cigar lit on the desk, and Brittany breathes in the scent of it, something vanilla, and catches Santana's eyes. Her hair is disheveled from stress, the way she always runs her hands through it at home when she's under pressure, and Brittany steps inside, not waiting for an invitation.

"Put on jeans, we're going out on the bike."

"Brittany, I—"

"It's Saturday, you're mega-stressed, and I want you to come for a ride with me. Just up the Harlem River for an hour or so. C'mon, it'll do us both good. Please?"

"I can't really say no to you when you make that face."

"Which is why I basically never pull it. But today I am. I just want to get out of the house with you, I won't even complain if you work all day tomorrow, let's just…be us, for a little while."

"Okay…fine."

It doesn't take Santana long to pull on a pair of high-waisted jeans and one of Brittany's track jackets. Brittany is _aching_ to get her in leather, she thinks she would look _crazy_ hot in a leather jacket, but she hasn't had the money yet, and she's not sure Santana's entirely _ready_ to be clad in leather on the back of a bike, so she'll wait. And in the meantime, she'll totally relish in the fact that any time she ever manages to get her to ride, Santana finds some article of clothing that's hers, and maybe, _maybe_ she kind of looks just as sexy like that.

Tossing Santana a helmet when they get outside, Brittany hops on her bike and steadied it, waiting for Santana to climb on behind her. At first, when they're on her block, she doesn't press herself fully into Brittany, but once they're on the West Side Highway, Santana's chin tucks into Brittany's shoulder, and she slides closer, closer, until the warmth between her legs is flush against Brittany's lower back, where her own leather jacket rides up. It's so hot that Brittany flushes a little, and if she weren't weaving in and out of traffic—with Santana repeatedly warning her to be careful—she'd probably have to find a place to pull over and just…go down on Santana for three hours, because it's her favorite thing, and this makes her want it all the more.

"I love you." Santana breathes into her ear, and in spite of the loud whirring of the cars beside them, Brittany hears every word, and melts at them. "And I'm sorry."

Brittany can't reply, but she knows that Santana knows. She knows that nothing will ever take that away, despite the thousand or so insecurities Santana has about who she is. Brittany loves her, and as hard as it might be to deal with that, she'll never stop trying to make her happy, never stop showing her that she should have the good in the world too, even if her parents have drilled into her that all she is is unnatural.

They ride for three hours, and when they finally get off the bike, Brittany looks at Santana, wind blown and legs shaking. It's hard, in that moment, not to kiss her on the driveway, not to toss her down right there and make love to her on the cement driveway. Instead though, she calmly follows Santana inside, and as soon as the door is closed behind them, she pushes her down on the foyer bench and kneels over her, straddling her thighs and kissing her hard.

"You're so fucking sexy, you know that?" Brittany purrs. "Do you know how much it turns me on, having you on the back of my bike and feeling your tits pressed into me for hours?"

"Babe…"

"All I could think of was fucking you, making you come and scream my name. Knowing you're _mine._ "

"I'm yours. I'll always be yours."

"Say it again." Brittany drags her teeth down Santana's neck, sucking until she knows she leaves a mark, and unzips her jacket, revealing a camisole, and the tops of Santana's breasts. She wastes no time pulling down the top, and pulling a nipple into her mouth, humming as she does.

"I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm yours. I'm yours."

"And I'm yours." She leaves Santana's breast, shining with her saliva, and sinks to her knees, pressing her face against the crotch of Santana's jeans. "Are you wet for me? Does it turn you on, knowing how bad I want you?"

"I've been turned on since you put that leather jacket on."

"You want me to keep it on while I eat you out and make you come on my face?"

"Brittany." Santana's head tilts back, and she moans. Brittany knows she never talks this dirty to her, but today, she wants to. Today, she _needs_ to be animalistic and filthy. Today, she needs to make Santana come harder than she ever has.

"Take off your jeans, and touch yourself for me. I want to watch your fingers slide in and out, until I tell you to stop."

Sitting back on her heels, Brittany watches how easily Santana complies. In record time, her ass is lifted from her seat, and her jeans are around her ankles. She doesn't even remove them fully before she's spreading her legs, and circling her clit with trembling fingers. So she doesn't dive right in, Brittany bites her lip and sits on her hands. Santana's chest heaves, and her fingers slide down lower, until she opens herself, thrusting in and out, moaning with each motion.

"Stop." Brittany orders, seizing Santana's wrist, and bringing wet fingers to her lips. "My favorite."

"Britt, please—"

Santana's plea dies on her lips as Brittany leans forward and presses her tongue to Santana's entrance, wiggling it as she enters her. Gripping the back of Brittany's neck, Santana's thighs clench, but Brittany is deliberate in prolonging her orgasm, alternating between sliding it in and out, and sucking Santana's clit into her mouth. When Santana is finally a moaning, trembling mess, Brittany let's her come, grinning triumphantly against her sex as Santana cries out her name, and liquid gushes from inside of her.

"Fucking—Holy fuck—How did you—fuck." Santana pants, grasping onto Brittany's shoulders, and holding her against her for a long time, until she can finally breathe again.

"I'm just that good." Brittany smirks, licking her bottom lip and looking up at her. "And you're that hot."

"Was your plan to make me forget my own name? Because it worked…"

"Maybe, like, a little. But also I love you. So, there's that too."

"I love you too. You know that, right?" Santana slips into the soft, sentimental way she always gets after an intense orgasm, and Brittany's bravado melts away.

"I know. And I know I'm like, kind of, whatever, you know, totally against the mainstream, and maybe it doesn't mean as much coming from someone like me, but…I just like you're enough as you are, as much as you don't think that."

"I feel enough when I look in your eyes."

"Well, maybe one day you'll feel it when you're not too."

Brittany lets Santana retreat into herself for the rest of the afternoon. She mostly just checks everything for dinner over and over again, and Brittany watches infomercials on television while she does. It's not a bad space, not at all, it's just _space,_ just time to think over their fight and their makeup, and to learn to do better next time. It lasts until it's time to get ready for Kurt Hummel's arrival, and when Brittany pulls on jeans and an A-ha t-shirt, she can't help but laugh at the contrast between that and Santana's slacks and blouse. Her hair is down, curly, but neat, and looking at her across the room, Brittany shoots her a grin.

"Did you want me to change again? Are we having a formal dinner?"

"No, Britt. I want you to be you. I _always_ want you to be you. You're the last person I wanted to walk into my life, because you made me feel things I want to feel, and you're the first person I want to keep forever. Please don't ever leave."

"Well." Brittany flops back on the big bed, and splits her legs so her feet almost touch both edges. She wears a mischievous grin on her face, and she winks at Santana. "Now that I'm used to living in luxury, I can't exactly go back to my old life, can I? But really, you're not who I ever thought I'd meet, but I totally love that I did."

"Me too." Santana sighs, running her hands through her hair.

"Are you gonna be okay tonight?"

"Yeah, I will. He's just a kid, and he has it worse than I do. It'll be fine."

It doesn't take much longer before the doorbell rings, and Brittany watches Santana stiffen again before she goes down to answer it. Brittany doesn't follow her to the door. Instead, she goes into the kitchen and pours two glasses of wine, to start. She really never was a wine drinker, but these days, after living with the _biggest_ one, she finds herself looking forward to the bottles they share each night. And tonight, she thinks they—or a least Santana—will probably need it more than usual.

"Hummel, you remember Brittany." Santana comes into the kitchen, Kurt trailing behind her. For just a moment, Brittany's eyes meet Santana's, and she sees her swallow hard. "My girlfriend."

"Oh, I didn't—" Kurt shakes his head, realization dawning on him, but he doesn't finish his though. "I'm sorry David couldn't make it. He has a big project due Tuesday, and he can't pull himself away."

"Next time then." Santana shrugs. "What do you drink?"

"Do you have a Diet Coke, maybe?"

"Just a soda?" Brittany raises her eyebrows. "We have wine and liquor…and probably some beer in the back of the fridge if you wanted."

"Soda is good. My father told me I should never drink around my superiors, and since you're my first boss, Santana, I don't think it's wise to contradict his lessons so quickly."

"Hummel. I'm not your superior tonight. Monday morning, if I saw you drinking in my presence, you'd have a pink slip on your desk, but I invited you tonight because—" She stops, and Brittany can tell she's unsure what to say next. "I wanted you to understand that I'm on your side. I'm essentially making a confession to you by inviting you here, and giving you a _lot_ more power over me than I've ever given someone at work. One word from you, and _I_ could lose my job. If you want a drink, have a drink. If you want a soda, have a soda. But don't do either on my account."

"I would never say anything, you know. I assumed you were out with a friend when I saw you…and obviously you didn't assume the same about me. You fly under the radar, I suppose."

"If you think that's easy—" Santana pauses to take a long sip of her wine, and Brittany is surprised by how she's opening up. "Every day is a war for me, and it impacts every aspect of my life. I don't ever want to be the person that makes anyone's life harder, because I know how awful it feels. You have a confidante in me, Hummel. I might be a bitch, but I'm not callous. If you need time off for health issues or…funerals, or anything else, come talk to me."

"I'm not…" Kurt shakes his head again, and Santana nods, a silent understanding passing between her and Brittany. "But thank you. If I need that, then…I'm glad to have a _confidante._ "

"Do you have friends in the city?" Brittany asks. "You just moved here from San Francisco, right?"

"I did…I had to get out, but…I guess it's not much better here. I know a few guys, and I met David at this place called Holly's a few weeks after I moved here, so…"

"Holly is my friend!" Brittany grins wide, and though she's been keeping it inside that she vaguely remembers meeting David the night Santana was drunk on gin martinis there, she feels validating that she wasn't just profiling Kurt's boyfriend to be some other random dude. "It's a safe place there."

"David goes much more than I do. He prefers the companionship of people like us, while I'd prefer not to get caught in a place like that."

"I understand that." Santana nods. "But if it's any consolation, Holly's is one of the few places in the city I feel safe to dance with Brittany, and where I can let my hair down for a little while."

"Thank you for telling me that." Kurt sucks in a breath. "I hope you don't mind if I ever choose to intrude upon your space."

"You're in my home, it doesn't get much more intrusive than that. Find yourself a space, it's all we can do to keep from losing our minds in this world."

Dinner with Kurt goes far better than Brittany dared to even hope for, but when he leaves, Santana still looks just completely exhausted. When she looks like that, Brittany always worries about her ulcer. By nature, she's not a _worrier,_ but this is Santana, and she guesses, maybe, that love does it to her. The woman she loves walks around _constantly_ carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and maybe it's true that sharing her burden is part of what love means.

"Do you want more wine?" Brittany asks her, after she watches her let Kurt out, and sink down onto the couch.

"I think I'm done." Santana shakes her head. "I'm getting my period tonight or tomorrow, and I'm crampy."

"Want me to rub it." She presses her tongue between her teeth, and mimes rubbing her own stomach.

"I'm alright. I know if you start rubbing me there, it'll lead to something else, and I'm just not in the mood tonight."

"Okay." Brittany looks away, crestfallen, though she knows sometimes when Santana hits a certain point of PMSing, she doesn't want to be touched at all. "I can get you a hot water bottle, or something?"

"It's fine. I think I just want to go to bed. Are you staying up for _Saturday Night Live,_ or coming?"

"Do you want me to give you some space? Because I can totally watch it if you just want to go to bed alone."

"I don't want space, but don't feel like you have to come to bed with me."

"I'm coming." Brittany rolls her eyes a little at Santana's silliness. "Let me just put the glasses in the sink so you don't have nightmares about them leaving rings, and get up at four in the morning to wash them."

"I'm not that anal-retentive."

"You sort of are, babes." Brittany kisses Santana's forehead, a tender gesture, knowing that it's been a rough day, and that she's not feeling great. "Go get in bed, I'll do all the dishwasher stuff and the light stuff, and set the alarm."

Wordlessly, Santana leaves the room, and Brittany not only brings the dishes to the kitchen, but actually washes them, making sure she doesn't get soap all over the place. Once the dishwasher is running, Brittany figures maybe she should make Santana a hot water bottle anyway, and she puts water in the microwave to boil while she sets the alarm. When the bottle is filled, she wraps it in a towel, and going to the bedroom, she sees that Santana is just crawling into bed, makeup washed from her face, and a night mask coating her skin.

"Hello, gorgeous." Brittany mimics Barbra Streisand's accent, then cringes a little, thinking of how Rachel Berry, Streisand fanatic, ruined her career. "Cringing at the thought of Berry, not you."

"I hoped so." Santana smiles a little. "You made me a hot water bottle anyway."

"Yeah, I mean, I hate when you feel all gross, so…I wanted to make you better."

"Thank you. I think the stress of the day just…amplified the yuck of it. At least I felt good this afternoon."

"You certainly did." Brittany smirks, handing Santana the bottle, and pulling her shirt over her head. "Do you feel okay with how the dinner went?"

"Yeah. I mean…yeah. It was good." She settles the bottle on her lower belly under her silk pajamas, and pulls the blanket back over herself. "I don't know, you know how I am. The wind blows, and I'm anxious."

"You? I totally did _not_ know that about you." Brittany laughs a little, as she finishes changing into boxers and a Duran Duran t-shirt. "What can I do?"

"Nothing. Really. I'm fine, I promise you that. I'm sorry today has been such a rollercoaster."

"I don't like fighting with you. It makes _me_ feel all yucky inside. I guess I just want you to feel okay with yourself, and it's hard for me to see that you're not."

"I should be. I'm a grown woman with the job hat I dreamed of, a beautiful home, and the perfect girlfriend. I guess I just listen to the world more than I should."

"I think that's why my parents _left_ the world for awhile." Brittany sits down on the edge of the bed, and picks up Santana's hand. "If you want to move to a free love commune, I totally know a guy."

"Free love is the last thing I want." Santana blanches. "I just want to be free to love _you._ I don't know, it's stupid, honestly. I see my parents every once in awhile, and I don't have work friends _anyway,_ so nothing would really change. I'm just a grump because of my period right now."

"I've got St. John's wort and chasteberry if you want."

"Brittany, I love you, but you know that if it's not FDA approved, I'm not going to take it."

"You and your government agencies." Brittany leans over and presses a kiss between her eyes. "Do you want chocolate ice cream?"

"Babe, I promise, I'm fine. I'm prepared to get it in the middle of the night, and honestly, the ice cream might make me feel a little sick. Just lay down with me, I'll even let you rub my stomach if it makes you feel like you're helping."

"You hate being touched when you feel this way."

"I hate everything when I feel this way, but it's okay, I don't hate you."

Figuring she'll get up and wash up after Santana is sleeping, Brittany crawls beneath the comforter, and lets Santana find her own position in her arms. She doesn't want to push her to talk about dinner, she doesn't want to push her to be touched. So she just lays there, waiting for Santana's head to fall into the crook of her neck, waiting for Santana to take her hand and lower it to her belly. Santana's skin is already hot from the bottle, and Brittany just strokes her fingers along the top of her high-waisted panties, not wanting to go lower and have Santana push her hand away.

"This okay?"

"Yeah, feels good. Maybe what I really needed was cuddles from you. We were talking about safe places with Kurt before, and _you_ feel safe for me, you know."

"I try to be your safe place, Santana. I know that my life isn't always together. I've had three jobs in the time you've known me, and I'm almost always broke, but I want to take care of you."

"That's what I'm always trying to explain to you about money." Santana puts her hand over Brittany's on her lower abdomen and squeezes. "I can take care of you financially. I can afford to pay the bills, and buy you nice things, but I'm incapable of doing what you do for me."

"You take care of me in tons of ways, Santana."

"It's different. When you're sick or crampy, I don't think right away to massage you, or bring you things. Your emotional stability is one of the first reasons I fell for you. I never thought I'd fall in love with someone in their early twenties—if I ever fell in love at all—but then you came along, and had this emotional maturity that I think was stunted for me sometime around thirteen."

"When you had your first crush on Patricia Stevens."

"I should _not_ have told you about Patricia Stevens."

"I think it's cute. I've seen pictures of you when you were thirteen, I would have totally reciprocated your crush big time." Brittany exhales. "But really, I don't think you're stunted. A little…up and down sometimes, maybe. But no fake, I think you're the best person in the world. I have a super, mega crush on you. Maybe that's weird, 'cuz you're my girlfriend and we live together, and I've heard you poop before, but I still have the same outrageous crush I had on you the night we met."

"Britt." Santana shakes her head laughing. "For what it's worth, I still have a super, mega crush on you too."

"Score!"


	18. Put Your Arms Around Me and We Tumble

With the weather getting warmer, and summer in full swing, Santana's workload picks up. She never understands quite why, but there's always an influx at the bank in the month of June, and she's wound tighter than usual, barely finding time for Brittany at night, when she shuts herself in her office to continue working until long after Brittany falls asleep on the couch. She feels bad about it, of course, but it can't be helped, she has a position to maintain, and the only way she can do that is by working twenty times as hard as any of the white men she employs would ever have to.

When she finally has a weekend free of obligations—both family and work—she's surprised to find out that Brittany planned them a getaway. At first, Santana protests, insisting that Brittany doesn't have the money to spend on a trip, when she finds out that one of Brittany's parents' friends have a cabin in the Catskills that they've agreed to lend her for the weekend, she softens to the idea just a little. While it isn't the five-star resort type getaway that _she'd_ plan, and maybe she's a little…hesitant about being out in the woods, Santana can see, as Brittany packs, just how excited she is for a weekend alone together, with no one around to bother them. Because of that, she plasters on a smile, and she packs the limited amount of outdoors-appropriate things she owns, and nods her trepidatious approval as Brittany straps their bags to the tail of her bike.

"You're sure it's safe to ride all the way up there?" Santana asks, leaning against the stoop in jeans and a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

"Super safe, I even memorized the map, so we don't have to stop to look." Brittany tugs the last strap over their bags. "And when we get there, it'll be just me and you for _miles._ No work, no phone, no stress."

"You don't know how good that sounds to me."

"Trust me babe, I do."

With the bags on the back of the bike, Santana locks up the front door and zips herself into the new leather jacket she bought, _just_ because of this trip, and just because she knew she'd be safer on a two hour ride with her upper body protected by leather. She feels Brittany look at her appreciatively, and she pulls the thick curly hair she'd left loose back in a ponytail before snapping her helmet on and hopping almost deftly onto the bike. Once she's settled, she presses even closer into Brittany than she normally would, with the bags behind her, and wraps her arms securely around Brittany's waist.

Once they make it out of Manhattan, and through the Bronx, the grit of the city fades away, and Westchester County almost gleams in front of them. It's full of yuppies, under no uncertain terms, but while Santana had oft considered selling her place in the city and buying one there, Brittany turns up her nose a little, having even more disdain for the suburbs than she did—before Santana, at least—for upper Manhattan.

The ride up is long, but Santana isn't bothered by it, not when she gets to hold tightly to Brittany, and not when she knows the end result will be three days of solitude, hidden from the world and any prying eyes. When they finally arrive, late in the afternoon, Santana is surprised by just how…rustic the place actually is. She knows that the Catskills are sort of a hotbed of holdover hippies, but when Brittany parks her bike in front of the cabin, and Santana takes in the multicolored tin roof and the sun god tapestries hanging from inside the windows, she finds herself wondering if there will actually be indoor plumbing in this place.

"Isn't it _amazing?_ " Brittany fawns over the place, grabbing the keys from her bike and shoving them into her jacket pocket. "I brought everyone up here two summers ago, and it was one of the funnest weekends of my life."

"I hope I didn't take away from a friends weekend for you." Santana shuffles between her feet, avoiding answering Brittany's original question.

"Are you kidding me? I'd so rather have _you_ here with me than anyone else. And I see you freaking about the cleanliness. Considering _I_ plan to spend half of my weekend naked, my bag is so big because I packed nice sheets and towels for you."

"Am I really that high maintenance?"

"You're a little high maintenance." Brittany laughs. "But I love you anyway, and I don't want you to think I dragged you up to some hell-hole in the middle of nowhere. I want you to _relax_ this weekend, and _maybe_ go skinny dipping in the lake with me."

"How about I _watch_ you skinny dip?" Santana furrows her brow, tugging at the bottom of her shirt.

"We'll see." Brittany unstraps the bags on the back of the bike, and is insistent on carrying them both to the door, unlocking it and letting Santana inside first.

"It's cute." Santana concedes, though she's unsure how Brittany managed to fit all of her friends into the little bungalow…though she guesses she shouldn't be surprised, given how many of them live in Brittany's old apartment.

"Wait 'til you see the bedroom." She shoulders the door open, revealing the full-wall window that overlooks the lake. "No fake, this is the most outrageous view I've ever seen."

"It is really beautiful." Santana stands before the glass, enjoying the view, but also wondering _how_ people live with such limited privacy.

"The nearest neighbors are like…eight miles from here, over the mountain." Brittany tells her, as if reading her mind.

"I promise I'm going to try and relax this weekend. No stress about work or windows or outhouses."

"Santana Lopez, I know you better than to bring you to a place with an outhouse." Brittany laughs, stepping back to slide the pocket door that hides the bathroom open. "Toilet, shower, there's even a bidet in there, which is this shiz nits."

"I don't even know what to say to that." Santana shakes her head, chucking.

"Say your legs aren't too sore to go into town, because if we want to eat and drink tonight, we have some shopping to do."

Though Santana could honestly sit in a chair and never get up, after the long ride and the effect that straddling the bike has on her, she gets back on with Brittany, and takes in the sights of the sparse town fifteen miles from their little cabin in the middle of the woods. She shakes her head and laughs while Brittany loads up a basket with junk, and once again expresses her amazement when she straps the food, two cases of beer, and three bottles of wine to the back of the bike and zips them back to their abode.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't the most relaxed she's been in a long time, when she changes into shorts back at the cabin, and settles in one of the porch rockers with a glass of wine. While the city is everything she wanted in her adolescence, a place of anonymity and a fast-paced world where she could throw herself into work, there's something to be said for this escape. There's something to be said for sitting outside with her girlfriend and smiling openly in affection, in a place where no one can see them, no one can _judge_ them, and while Brittany rolls her eyes a little as Santana takes a cigar from her case and lights it, she can see in deep blue eyes just how much Brittany enjoys her rare ability to actually _relax,_ possibly more than she ever has while fully clothed, in the time Brittany has known her.

Though they never really cook at home, living mostly on meals out, and Millie's cooking, Santana is impressed as she watches Brittany light the old gas grill, leaning over perhaps a little too long in her cutoff shorts, and flipping her head over her shoulder to smirk at her. It doesn't take her long to grill hot dogs—in spite of Santana's protests earlier in the store that they get something a little healthier—and when they sit down at the picnic table under the pine trees, Brittany rubs her foot along Santana's bare legs. Santana doesn't flinch or worry her forehead, she simply leans back a little, savoring the greasy hot dog, and savoring the touch to her girlfriend, who wants to touch her all the time.

"I never thought I'd see you eat a hot dog in my life." Brittany remarks, grabbing a second one from the paper plate between them.

"I think this might only be the second one I've ever eaten."

"Excuse me, what?"

"Can you really picture Dr. and Mrs. Lopez's cook serving me _hot dogs_ as a child?"

"I mean, _I_ didn't eat hot dogs as a kid either. We pretty much ate whatever they grew on the collective farm…and since I don't think hot dogs actually come from any good animal parts—"

"Can you not, babe?" Santana laughs, a real laugh, a carefree laugh. "I'm actually enjoying this, and I don't need to think about where it comes from."

"I love when you laugh like that. Like, you don't even know. You have the prettiest laugh, and the prettiest smile, and the prettiest _face._ "

"You're drunk."

"You're definitely drunk too. But that doesn't make you more pretty. You're always the same pretty. I'm kind of obsessed with you." Brittany breathes, almost reverently, and it makes Santana's whole body heat up. "No, I'm actually mega obsessed with you. I told my mom the other day that I'm gonna marry you someday."

"We…we can't do that, Brittany." A darkness passes over Santana's face, but Brittany reaches over and rubs it away, fingers caressing worry lines, and thumb rubbing away a frown.

"Artie and Mike are getting married. Screw the government, my parents aren't legally married."

"What?" Santana's eyes widen in shock.

"They're not. Some dude they knew gave a speech, and they recited some vows. There's no legal papers, or whatever. Mom was like…seven months pregnant with me from a different guy, but she loved my dad, so they had some ceremony in the woods, and never went to the courthouse to get a license."

"How did I not know that?"

"I guess I just never thought about it. They seem married enough to me. Anyway…" Brittany changes the subject quickly, and Santana breathes a sigh of relief. "I'm totally skinny dipping after dinner, just so you know."

"I think I'm going to need a _lot_ more wine before I'm there."

"Well." She refills Santana's glass quickly. "Drink up, babe, 'cuz I'm gonna get you in that water one way or another."

The internal panic that rises in Santana as a result of Brittany's words is assuaged by the next theee glasses of wine, and she becomes giggly as she grabs towels from the front of the house. With them in her arms, and a half-finished bottle of wine in her hand, she follows Brittany down to the lake, still insistent upon the fact that she's not getting in there naked where the bears can see her. But even with that, she's still less uptight than she thinks Brittany has ever seen her, and she walks one foot in front of the other on the old wooden dock, before plopping down on the edge with her feet in the water.

"This reminds me of summer camp." She slurs a little.

" _You_ went to a summer camp like this?" Brittany laughs, pulling off her t-shirt, which she's bra-less underneath. "I don't buy it."

"The…accommodations were a little more swanky, but I'll have you know I went to summer camp in Maine for four whole summers. Didn't everyone go to camp in the sixties?"

"I don't even remember the sixties." Brittany curls her tongue and starts unbuttoning her shorts.

"I forgot." Santana giggles a drunken giggle, and lays back so she can see both the stars and naked Brittany. "You're really going to let the bears see you naked?"

"I'm going to let _you_ see me naked. There's no bears around, and you haven't lived until you've gone skinny dipping."

"Do you really want me to?" She sits up again, leaning back on her hands.

"I want you to _want_ to, if you're gonna do it." Brittany wriggles out of her shorts, and stands stark naked on the dock, doing a little dance so Santana can appreciate her body, before she jumps from the dock, soaking Santana with her splash. Her head pops up from under the water, and she grins wide. "Whoo-whee! This is fricking bitchin'! You should _totally_ come in!"

"I…can't believe I'm going to do this." Santana takes a swig from the bottle, standing up, and Brittany's eyes widen in the same shock. "But I'm trying to…cool out."

"I love when you say stuff like that." Brittany ducks her head under water again, and pops back up in time to see Santana unbuttoning her denim shirt, and exposing the lacy red bra beneath it. "Whoa, that's hot."

"Hmm." Santana looks down at her, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth…the kind of seductive smirk she only gives Brittany when she's _highly_ intoxicated. She doesn't waste any time dropping the shirt on the dock, and quickly letting her bra fall with it, before she slides out of her jean shorts and panties, not even bothering with the button and fly.

"Nope, got it wrong, this is the frickin' sexiest thing I've ever seen. If any bears are watching…that's my girlfriend!" Brittany yells into the emptiness, the way she can't when there are people around.

Santana just _giggles,_ actual giggles that neither of them thought were possible, coming from a woman who is so perpetually serious. In the light of the moon, she dips her toe in the water, taking in her naked reflection on the lake, and almost marveling at herself, drunk, naked and nearly uninhibited. The reflection amazes her, but it's very quickly broken when she loses her balance, and falls shrieking into the cold water of the lake. Gasping for air, she swims to the surface, and when she breaks it, there is Brittany, right beside her, and offering her someone to hold onto. Though Santana never imagined she'd be pressing into her girlfriend stark naked in a starlight filled lake, she does, wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck, and letting her hold her up while she catches her breath.

"'S freezing in here." She sputters, shaking water from her long, curly hair.

"Feels really good." Brittany husks, then shakes her head. "But I promised no funny business."

"You did." Santana laughs, finally catching her breath, and leaning back to float on her back. "Look at all the stars. Do you know about them?"

"About stars?"

"Yeah. You talk about astrology and celestial happenings, so do you know about the actual stars."

"Well—" Brittany lets herself fall backwards, padding so she's beside Santana. "That's Cassiopeia, the one that looks kind of like a W."

"The queen chained to her throne in heaven."

"I'm lucky I graduated high school, I'm not sure what the mythology behind any of it is, just where they are in the sky."

"It feels like a million years ago." Santana confesses. "But I took a mythology class at Barnard, and I remember Cassiopeia and Andromeda. Cassiopeia chained up Andromeda sacrificed her daughter to the sea, but she was saved by Perseus. Poseidon wanted to keep Cassiopeia from escaping _her_ punishment, so he chained her like that in the heavens."

"That's really sad." Brittany ducks her head back under the water, and when she comes up, Santana is still staring at the stars. "Do you know a better story?"

"I know—" Santana hiccups a little, then regains her floating poise. "The one about the girl who'd never fall in love."

"That sounds like total misery."

"It was, until she went into a bar one night for a date, and this beautiful blonde stole her away."

"Babe…"

"You wanted a happy one."

"Does our story really make you happy?"

"Happier than anything."

"Makes me happy too." Brittany hums. "Are you having fun?"

"So much fun." Santana says, very seriously, then turns her head to the side, looking at Brittany with her blonde hair splayed out in the water. "I thought I was going to hate it here. Sorry, I didn't mean to say that!"

"You're cute when you're drunk." Brittany tries to kiss her, but ends up rolling face front into the water.

"Britt!"

"I'm fine!" Brittany spits out water, giggling, and pulling Santana under.

"Babe!"

"You could have told me you didn't want to come." Brittany keeps laughing. "We didn't have to."

"You were really excited." Santana purses her lips, trying to find footing in the mud at the bottom of the lake. "I didn't _not_ want to come, I just…bugs and woods and…someone else's house. But I wanted to come for you."

"I love you so much." Brittany wraps her wet arms around her, making Santana squirm, thinking Brittany's going to pull her back under. "I'm for serious, I'm not gonna dunk you. I also still can't believe you're skinny dipping."

" _I_ can't believe I'm skinny dipping." Santana tips her head back, looking back up at the stars. "Everything is so pretty out here."

"You really like it?"

"I really like it." Santana hiccups again, burying her face in Brittany's neck. "And I especially like you."

When they get out of the water, it's clear that Santana is too drunk to even walk straight, so Brittany wraps her in a towel and gather's up their clothes, guiding Santana back up to the house. They stumble together through the door, and Brittany catches Santana before she falls, making Santana swoon.

"My lady knight in shining armor."

"At your service." Brittany kisses all over her face. "Let's get you to bed, drunky."

While Brittany tucks Santana, still naked and damp, into bed, Santana looks up at her with big eyes, awestruck, in her intoxicated state, by everything Brittany is. When Brittany leaves the room for a moment, Santana rubs her temples, feeling a little bit of a headache coming on, and she closes her eyes, opening them again only when she hears Brittany stumble back in. She's holding an aluminum bottle, and a container of aspirin.

"Take these before bed, babe. I just took like four."

"Don't wanna."

"Don't care." Brittany shakes her head. "Tilt your head back, I'll do it for you."

After Brittany gets her to swallow the pills, Santana passes out. Her sleep is fitful, and when the stream of sunlight through the window wakes her up, she groans, feeling her head throb, and her whole body ache. Her memory of the night before is foggy, at best, and until she manages to open her eyes, she actually forgets that she and Brittany aren't at home in their own bed, and that they're somewhere in the Catskills, away from the rest of the world. When her senses become clearer, she notices that Brittany isn't in bed at all, and she can smell both bacon and coffee, the exact balm she needs for her hangover.

"Breakfast in bed time." Brittany chirps, wearing only the denim shirt that Santana had discarded by the water the night before, and a pair of black cotton panties, and carrying a tray of food.

"You made _breakfast?_ " Santana croaks, surprised by the gesture.

"No fake, I didn't even burn the bacon…or the coffee."

"You are…amazing." Santana hums, taking a piece of crispy bacon from the plate and biting into it, despite her nausea. "How much did I even drink last night?"

"Almost two bottles of wine."

"Did we…?" Santana scrunches her forehead, rubbing it with her thumb as she tries to put her memories together.

"Go skinny dipping? We totally fricking did."

"Oh my God." Her face heats up, and she buries her head in her hands, hiding her smile. "Are you sure?"

"I'm definitely sure. You looked super hot in the moonlight, _and_ you were totally relaxed."

"That's _insane._ "

"And also way fun."

"There's really no one who can see us here?"

"Santana." Brittany perches on the edge of the bed, squeezing Santana's bare thigh. "I promise you, with everything in me, that I'd never willingly do something that'd make you uncomfortable. There's a house on the other side of the lake, which is like…crazy big, and we can't see their dock, so they can't see this one. It was just me and you, and it'll just be me and you when I get you out of bed and bring you down to see the beach later."

"My head is _splitting._ Before I go anywhere, I need a gallon of water, a gallon of coffee, and probably an entire bottle of aspirin. I'm never drinking again."

"How's your _stomach?_ " Brittany runs her finger to Santana's naval, and settles the flat of her palm over it.

"A little sick." She shakes her head, forking at the egg on the plate. "But not ulcer pain, just I'm an idiot who drank two bottles of wine pain."

"We can stay in if you want too."

"No, I'll be alright, just give me a little time to pull myself together, and then we can do anything you want."

" _Anything?"_

"Anything."

Since Santana assumed Brittany's request to do _anything_ would involve sex, she didn't expect, two hours after she woke up with a hangover, to be watching Brittany pack a backpack with canteens and towels and Carnation bars as she tied on her sneakers. But apparently, _anything_ meant a long walk-hike through the woods to some waterfall that Brittany promised she knew the location of, and since Santana promised…well, she wasn't about to break that.

So they set out into the woods, Santana rubbing Skin So Soft on her arms and legs to keep away the bugs, and Brittany absently sipping a bottle of Pepsi while Santana does the same to her. The whole time, Santana's head throbs, and she struggles to keep up, but she insists to herself that she can handle it, that she's dealt with much tougher than this, though she'd much rather be slumped in one of the porch chairs smoking a cigar, and she remains at Brittany's side, trying to listen as she points things out in the woods. It's moments like that when Santana remembers how _smart_ Brittany is. When she realizes that there's so much her private high school and Barnard education didn't prepare her for, that Brittany's experience with her hippie parents did. She loves that, she loves it a lot, and though she's exhausted and still achy from her hangover by the time the reach the elusive waterfall, Santana is happy.

"Brittany, this is beautiful." Santana marvels, feeling the spray from the water hit her.

"Right?" Brittany drops the backpack and bends over, stretching out her legs and her back, before she lands in a full split, looking up at Santana. "You okay?"

"Yeah, totally, just still a little hungover."

"I brought weed, if you want some to make it feel better."

"Britt." Santana shakes her head. "Never gonna happen."

"Just checking." She shrugs. "I brought towels, wanna lay down?"

"Maybe in a minute. Can I touch the waterfall?" Shocking herself by her childlike request, Santana looks down sheepishly, until Brittany takes her hand.

"Duh, c'mere." Brittany leads her toward it, and once they're inches from the fall, and Santana has touched it, she pulls her close for a kiss. "Mmm, I like kissing you outside."

"I…like it too. Feels freeing."

"I'm so glad I brought you here. Our secret little love nest away from the world. We can kinda come here whenever we want, Pam and Erin are like, my mom's best friends."

"Pam and _Erin?_ I thought you said Pam and _Eric._ "

"Nope, Pam and Erin. I was kinda wondering why you had no reaction when I said that."

"And they're…"

"Babe, we really need to introduce you to more gay people, so you're not always shocked by how many I know. And yeah…they've been together since the seventies. Last I heard, Erin was turkey bastering Pam."

"Britt." Santana pinches the bridge of her nose. "That's entirely too much information about people whose bed we're sleeping in."

"As far as I know they're not doing it _here./I I figured they'd—"_

"Really, too much."

"How about I just kiss you again instead?"

"Yeah." Santana leans in, pursing her lips in the au Brittany teases her for sometimes, and sighing as Brittany kisses her. "Much better."

"I'm going to swim, do you want to swim?"

"I think I'm swum out. I want to read the paper anyway, so go ahead."

"Boring." Brittany sticks out her tongue and pulls off her shirt, leaving her bathing suit top in place—much to Santana's surprise.

"Relaxing." Santana shrugs and Brittany jumps into the swimming hole.

Keeping one eye on Brittany, Santana goes into the backpack and pulls out a towel and her newspaper, leaning back against a tree to read it. She sip's water from the canteen and reads about the election, earmarking the page to a piece on Ferraro for Brittany, and turning to the finance section to check her stocks. She doesn't realize it, but she falls asleep sitting like that, and when she jolts awake again, she groans at the pain in her neck, and blinks her eyes open to see Brittany standing in front of her, dripping in her bikini.

"So relaxing that paper put you to sleep?" She smirks. "Are you still feeling gross?"

"Remembering I'm not twenty-one anymore, and my body isn't designed to deal with hangovers. Also jealous that you still can."

"That's what happens when you date a sexy younger woman." Brittany straddles Santana, kissing her lips. "Am I getting you all wet?"

"You always are." Santana breathes, closing her eyes, because much as she knows Brittany would try, she is absolutely _not_ having sex in the woods, both for fear of bears and people, and an even _bigger_ fear of dirt and sticks absolutely anywhere near her _parts._

"Can I rub your neck?" Brittany asks, and Santana thinks she sensed her feelings on the matter, which is why she changed the subject.

"Would you?"

"Um, duh. Lay your head in my lap, and I'll do it magical massage."

Santana complies with Brittany's request, laying back with her head on Brittany's thighs, and closing her eyes as she runs her fingers through her hair, fluffing it out and starting at her temples. She loves this, the way Brittany is so tender with her, she loves feeling cared for, since her whole life, she's had to care for herself, and she hums softly, feeling the muscle tension break up all over her body. Even after a relaxing night, Santana is always so tightly wound, even as she lays in her girlfriend's lap beside a waterfall in the woods where no one can see them. She still thinks of the stress at work, she still thinks of her parents, she still thinks of all the ways she lets down Brittany every day, but when she's like this, just for a moment, she feels like she can breathe.

"I love feeling the stress knots break up." Brittany tells her, working a particularly hard spot in Santana's shoulder.

"I'm so skeeved by it, I have no idea how you do it."

"Eh, I've been doing it forever, and I'd rather do it for you than anyone else in the world."

"I wish we could stay longer here, escape from it all forever."

"I didn't think I'd hear you say that."

"Because you figured out I wasn't crazy about coming?"

"Well, you _did_ tell me last night." Brittany laughs a little, and Santana's face forms into a frown. "Babe, it's fine, I'm just glad you're enjoying it now."

"I wonder if there will ever be a time where I feel this relaxed in the city. Where everything doesn't make me feel like I'm about to snap in half."

"Maybe when you retire." Brittany shrugs, still working on her shoulder.

"I don't think it's just work that makes me feel so stressed."

"I know." She leans down and kisses Santana between the eyes. "But work is a big factor. I know even while you're relaxed, you're thinking about the dinner you have to go to on Thursday."

"I am." Santana admits, though it hurts her deeply. "It gets exhausting hearing people talk about me behind my back. I'm very good at my job, I don't know why everyone feels the need to speculate on my personal life. I don't care what anyone else does in theirs."

"Because you're not a dickweed."

"I'm lucky I get to come home to you, who's not whispering about whether I'm too frigid to ever get a man, or if I have one I keep home in the kitchen, and then come home and humiliate emotionally and sexually every night."

"They _say_ that about you?" Brittany stops her massage and looks down at Santana, who nods her head.

"Some variation of that all the time. It's not just Hudson and Azimio either, I've heard upper management snickering about who wears the pants in my house."

"I prefer when neither of us wear any pants." Brittany teases gently, though she squeezes Santana's shoulder. "They don't define you."

"I know." Santana squeezes her eyes shut, so she doesn't cry. "And I know you've had a shit time at work, and you've had sexual favors demanded of you, and you dealt with Berry. I think you're really tough and strong."

"Well if it counts for anything, I think the same about you. I can't imagine how hard it is to go to work every day and lock away a part of who you are."

"I guess at least I have Hummel now."

"I'm glad you do. I like him, I think he's weird and funny and has excellent taste."

"You would. The two of you in your bright colors."

"Says the woman who was wearing a bright yellow dress the first time I met her."

"I was stepping outside the box."

"Obviously, since you fell for a dancing, flighty biker."

"It was the best choice I ever made, getting on your terrifying bike that night."

"You're getting used to it." Brittany laughs. "Like you've gotten used to all my kooky things."


	19. It's Not a Fast Move, But a Slow Groove

After they return from their little getaway in the mountains, Brittany hardly sees Santana for two weeks. Every night, she comes home late from work, and she shuts herself up in her office with a glass of blood red wine and a cigar. Though it irritates Brittany to no end that she doesn't get more than a few moments to talk to her before bed, and then again in the morning when she's rushing out the door to get to the bank long before it opens, she can't complain. There's some kind of audit, or…something that Brittany hadn't really understood going on, and she can tell by the worry lines on Santana's face that she feels a great deal of concern over her job. But as sympathetic to Santana's plight as she is, Brittany can't help but worry about her girlfriend's stomach, and hope that she doesn't work herself back into the hospital.

For her own part, Brittany is busy with her own job. Her classes for seniors have become quite a hit, and Carl has added more to her load. It's great…at least as far as income in concerned, but Brittany can't help but think that maybe she'll get stuck with _this_ position, when she'd much rather be doing something else that really lets her dance. If she's being honest with herself, she misses performing, and while a steady paycheck is nice, sometimes, in the back of her mind, she regrets not taking Santana up on the offer to be her sugar mama while she goes out and auditions for roles she knows Rachel Berry will prevent her from getting.

But it's unrealistic. She'd never be content knowing that she's not contributing in _some_ way to the house, and while Santana barely accepts anything, and Brittany ends up spending more of her money on weird gifts than actual bills, at least she feels like she's not a total freeloader. She just has to keep going, she just had to embrace this job, and really, if she's being honest with herself, she has to stop her crazy dreaming about life under the spotlight, and start imagining it under the fluorescent lights of the crappy studio where she teaches her classes.

The day of Santana's big…bank thing, Brittany decides she wants to make her night _really_ special. Since she knows she probably won't feel like going on, after she teaches her morning classes, Brittany starts making her way back to the subway to beg Millie for some help with cooking…something that she doesn't leave behind for them in a casserole dish. She figures maybe she can master some kind of steak thing, if Millie will leave the side dishes and maybe the dessert, and she wants to do it…without leaving a huge mess in the kitchen that Santana will inevitably insist on cleaning up.

When she's just a block from the train, Brittany gets stuck behind two slow moving and self-important businessmen. She huffs in frustration, wishing she'd taken her bike today, but then, she looks up at the window beside her at the mannequins dressed in burlesque, and she realizes she hasn't been inside The Pink Pussycat in a _really_ long time, probably since Lauren worked there. Wheels begin to turn in her head, and her aggravation turns into excitement, as she pushes open the swinging door, and tramps right over to find what she's looking for.

She never feels any sense of embarrassment when she's in a sex shop. After all, she's bought a _lot_ of different toys there, and she thinks that all women should embrace their sexuality, and explore their bodies. But strangely, as bored looking guy behind the counter tucks her purchases into a paper bag, and she pays him, she feels this sense of _weirdness._ Maybe buying something to use with Santana is more intense than just buying things to play around with. Maybe knowing that she wants to take this new step in their relationship that Santana might _totally_ not be down for is kind of nerve wracking.

When she gets back to the house, Brittany leaves her purchase stashed in her dance bag in the freshly cleaned bedroom, and she goes into the kitchen to find Millie reorganizing the cabinets. Brittany feels bad sometimes, like she's making more work for Millie every time she touches something, and inevitably gets it out of place, but every time she's home and offers to help, Millie just shoos her away, and tells her that she's well enough taken care of by Santana that she doesn't mind.

"Hey Millie!" Brittany chirps, plopping down at the kitchen table.

"Hi, Brittany. Can I get you some lunch?"

"Millie, I tell you every day, I don't feel comfortable with you making me lunch, and my Mom would _lose her cool_ if she heard I let you. It's bad enough I eat the meals you leave us for dinner."

"Well, if you were waiting on Santana to make dinner, you'll go hungry." Millie laughs. "I'm glad enough I can get her to eat what I make, rather than going out to dinner every night."

"You like, totally act more like her mom than her mom."

"I've got a brood of 'em, who might need a little of my mothering. So, what's troubling you today, Brittany?"

"I want to make dinner tonight, since Santana will finally be done with that…"

"Acquisition?" Millie offers, and Brittany pumps her first.

"Yes! Thank you! I've been big time tearing myself up trying to remember that word all day! Anyway, I can barely even boil water, and much as I love your casseroles, I'd rather have something a little…"

"Fancier?"

"Yes! I mean, no offense, the food you leave us is totally awesome, but, I dunno…"

"You're good for her, you know." Millie brushes her hand over Brittany's face. "I've never seen her as relaxed as since you've moved in."

"Well, that's kinda scary." Brittany laughs, shaking her head. "Because she's like, the total opposite of relaxed."

"Way more than she was, and no more ulcers."

"For now." She sighs, raking her hands through her long hair. "But that's why I wanna make her dinner tonight, because I feel like this acquisition thing has her all wound up, and she needs to, like…chill out."

"Alright, how about this? I was going to run down to Citarella in a few minutes anyway, so I'm going to pick up two steaks, two potatoes, and some spinach. I'm pretty sure I can even teach _you_ to pull those things into a dinner."

Brittany ends up joining Millie on her grocery store run. Then, she takes very careful notes, even in her messy handwriting _just_ to make sure she doesn't mess anything up with the cooking. She wants it to be perfect, and she doesn't want to destroy the kitchen doing it. After everything Santana has been through at work, Brittany thinks she deserves at least that, and since she's made it her mission in life to make Santana happy, she's going to get it done, no matter what.

At six-o'clock, Brittany has showered, and has the red wine out and open. Like Millie instructed, the steaks are resting on the counter, the potatoes are in the oven, and the spinach is soaking in a colander in the sink. As a last minute thing, she ran back over to Citarella, and bought some shrimp, already cooked, cleaned and peeled, and she laid them out on a plate, thinking maybe it would be a nice thing to have for date night. Santana always takes her out for fancy dinners, so this feels like…some kind of close second, or something, and Brittany is pretty proud of herself.

It's a quarter after when the door opens, and Brittany can hear the click of Santana's heels on the wood floor. She can usually tell what kind of mood she's in just by that sound, and the steps are quiet today, telling her she's really worn out. Brittany hopes she doesn't want to shut herself up in the office, she hopes she's willing to be pampered and kissed and…thoroughly fucked, after so many nights they've gone without seeing each other.

"Britt?" Santana calls from the foyer. "Are you home?"

"In the kitchen!" Brittany calls back, struggling to pull out the heavy cast iron pan from where it's wedged under the stove. It make never have been used, Brittany thinks, but it's there, and she'll be damned if she doesn't christen it. "I opened the wine!"

"I knew I fell for you for a reason." Santana appears in the doorway, face flushed from the heat outside, and blazer folded over her arm. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making you dinner, duh." She goes to her quickly, and kisses her lips, long and lingering, even copping a feel, just for a quick second. "Sexy."

"I feel disgusting." Santana shakes her head. "And…babe, you don't know how to cook."

"Hey! Rude! Millie gave me like, super detailed directions. I know you hate coming home and not showering in the summer, so go. I've got it under control."

"Okay…" She trails off, looking clearly concerned. "But I'm taking a glass of wine with me. If I don't have a drink now, my fucking head is going to explode."

Brittany waves Santana off with another kiss, and she turns to the stove. She gets the spinach in a pan with some garlic, and shakes her head, even as it looks like it's overflowing a little. She's cautious with the cast iron pan, making sure it gets as hot as it can be, before she puts butter in it. It kind of seems to her like the butter is burning, but she ignores her instinct, and puts the steaks in. She has some time, so she puts the radio on, and she starts dancing. Before she knows it, she smells burnt meat, and she quickly runs back to the stove, groaning as she flips the steaks and sees that they're _definitely_ burnt on one side, and the spinach is maybe a little soggy.

By the time she gets everything out, the meat is a mess, the spinach is a mess, but at least, she figures, the potatoes look okay. She gets everything onto plates, and she gulps down a glass of wine, grinning dopily as Santana walks into the kitchen in Spandex pants and a long t-shirt. It's rare she looks so casual, and Brittany looks forlornly at the spoiled dinner, before pulling out a chair for her girlfriend.

"Sorry, I, uh, kinda suck at this."

"It looks good." Santana smiles, though Brittany knows she's lying.

"We totally don't have to eat it. I can like, run and get pizza or something."

"No, Britt, you made dinner, and it was really sweet of you. I want to eat it."

As it turns out, the potatoes aren't cooked, but Brittany watches as Santana dutifully makes her way through the meal, even as Brittany insists that she _really_ doesn't have to, that she really can get something that's not absolutely terrible. But it makes Brittany so unbelievably happy that she actually eats the food, it makes her feel so loved that she kind of just wants to stop everything and kiss Santana hard on her pretty mouth. She's kind of obsessed with this woman, and really, she missed her a _lot_ while she was so busy with work, and wants to do whatever she can to make her happy now that she actually has a minute to herself.

"You're quiet tonight." Brittany observes, washing down some of the half-raw potato with her wine.

"Just tired." Santana shrugs, spearing a piece of meat.

"Was everything okay at work? I mean, I know you were worried and stuff, about how the acquisition was going to go, and whether you'd be okay."

"Everything is good. They're…um, reorganizing positions, it looks like. So if things go according to what they say, my new job title will be _vice president_ instead of branch manager."

"What?!" Brittany explodes, nearly upsetting the whole table with how quickly she jumps up. "Vice president?"

"It's not that big of a deal." Santana laughs. "It's more of a name change in title than anything. The raise I'll get this year was already expected."

"I totally don't care if it's a name change, that's super amazing and super sexy. Can I remind myself every time we have sex that I'm sleeping with a vice president?"

"Is this a Geraldine thing?" Santana sips her wine, hiding her smile behind the glass.

"No way, this is _totally_ a you thing. I'm way proud of you, even if it's just a name change, or whatever."

"Thank you, babe. But seriously, not a big deal. Tell me about your day."

"Well, Millie sort of failed at teaching me how to cook, clearly. Work was work, you know, teaching old people dancerobics, the usual."

"You hate it."

"I don't hate it. I just…don't love it. And it's fine, lots of people don't love their jobs. But I have one, and I can't get fired because of Berry, so…"

"Have you thought about auditioning again?" Santana leans her head on her hand, and Brittany feels like she's being studied.

"I think about it every day." Brittany confesses breathily. "But I really don't want to go through what I went through with _A Chorus Line_ again. Get my hopes up, and then some crusty old dude is like 'hey gimme a BJ and you got the part.'"

"To set the record straight, I'd still really like to kill that guy." Santana crumples her napkin in her hand and scowls.

"Yeah, same. But I don't know. I blew it my chances by pissing off Rachel Berry. She might be half-washed up, but she's still got like, a ton of power. I don't know…I should just be content that Carl gave me a job, you know?"

"You came here for a dream, Brittany. I don't think it's wrong for you to keep chasing it."

"I got the real dream with you, baby."

"Okay, Anita." Santana laughs. "Listen, I just want you to know that I love and support you, _and_ you know I'll always financially support you if you need it."

"You know I don't want your money."

"I know, but if you ever change your mind, it's yours for the taking. You've given me so much more than money could ever buy."

"You're really sweet tonight."

"I'm tired, and I really missed you the past few weeks. It feels good to be home with you."

"Yeah it does. _And,_ I got you another surprise for later." Brittany lowers her voice, waggling her eyebrows. "I'm kinda psyched about it."

"What is it?"

"You're totally gonna have to wait and see. But first, I'm gonna give you a naked massage, and maybe eat whipped cream off your boobs."

"You know I really hate food in the bedroom." Santana wrinkles her nose.

"Ugh, fine. But someday I'll make it happen, I think you'd look really sexy in a whipped cream bikini."

"I love you, Britt, but absolutely never."

They finish dinner, and though Brittany tries to clean everything up, Santana is insistent that she does it. Brittany gets it, she knows that Santana is so particular about where everything goes, and how the stove gets cleaned, but sometimes, she really just wishes Santana would sit back, relax, and let Brittany clean up. She doesn't fight it though. Instead, she goes up to the bedroom, and she puts Santana's _Rumours_ album on the record player to make the mood sexier in there, and she strips down to just her sports bra and panties. She _probably_ could have chosen sexier underwear, but Santana gets, like, really turned on my the sports bra thing, so she leaves it and turns down the bed, kind of desperate to ravage her on it.

She's just lighting candles when Santana comes up to the bedroom, and she gives her a cocked smile, patting the bed to urge her to lay down. That's probably the best thing about dinner being kind of crappy, she doesn't have to wait to get her hands on her girlfriend's naked body, and Santana undresses quicker than Brittany expects, laying down on her stomach on the cool silk sheets. The sight of her like that turns Brittany on a _lot,_ but she remembers that she'd promised to massage the knots out of her body…and she thinks it's probably better that she relaxes her completely before she shows her the new toy she got.

"You're really gorgeous, babe." Brittany whispers in her ear, brushing a kiss there as she sits on the back of Santana's thighs.

Santana grunts a response, and Brittany sets to work, using her hands and her elbows to really work the tension out of her upper body. Maybe it's not the sexiest massage, considering how hard she works the muscles, but she knows it's actually _working,_ and she feels good about that. When she feels like she's done all she can, and over an hour has gone by, she makes Santana turn over, and she crouches between her legs, brushing her fingertips there _just_ to feel that she's gotten wet from all the touching, before she starts on the front part of her shoulders, and her peaked-nipple breasts.

It would be a total lie if Brittany didn't admit how much she _loves_ playing with Santana's boobs, and under the totally transparent guise of massaging them, it's kind of even hotter. She loves to take them in her hands, loves to pinch the nipples between her thumb and forefinger, loves to roll the tender flesh until she can feel Santana's heart beat quicker, and her breath pick up. Being able to make Santana come _just_ from touching her breasts is one of Brittany's special talents—like, seriously, if she could put it on a resume, it would be listed as her top skill—and she can't help but duck her head down and mark the soft skin, making Santana moan as her teeth sink just ever so slightly in.

Once Santana comes the first time, Brittany can't wait any longer to get between her legs, and she trails her tongue down, stopping only for a moment at her navel, before she spreads her legs apart and licks her lips. As much as Brittany _loves_ Santana's boobs, going down on her is something else entirely, and she licks a stripe through, collecting the wetness that gathered there from her first orgasm, and humming against the sensitive area. Santana's hands fist her hair, and while she's not usually demanding, tonight, she spits a desperate _fuck,_ and pushes Brittany's head closer to her. Brittany knows she needs this release, she needs it over and over again, and she's more glad than anything that she gets to be the one to give it to her.

"C'mere, baby." Santana beckons, after she comes for a second time, thighs trapping Brittany's head, and hands pulling at hair more than either of them had expected.

"Nope." Brittany pops her _p_ and scrambles off the bed, and dives for her bag, anxious to show Santana her purchase.

Though Santana's limbs are jellied, she props herself up, and Brittany digs through her dance bag. When she finally pulls out her purchases, she figures she ought to ease even the most sex-sated Santana into this idea, and she sits down beside her on the bed, crossing her legs beneath her, and revealing the dildo, harness and lube that she'd purchased with the hope she could use them on Santana, and Santana would totally be okay with the idea.

Santana's brow furrows when she looks at the items before her, and for just a moment, Brittany remembers how freaked out she'd been the day she found her Hitachi. With the exception of the…few times Santana let Brittany use it on her, Brittany knows she's never really been up for exploring with it herself—while Brittany will admit that she still does sometimes, when she's bored and horny, and Santana is working—and tries to read Santana's expression, which doesn't look all that great.

"I don't…understand." Santana finally admits, cheeks flushed, but eyes riveted on the light pink silicon in Brittany's lap. Her own panties are wet, both from pleasuring Santana, and the idea of _this,_ but she can tell that's not all Santana is looking at.

"It's a strap-on dildo. You know, like—"

"I know what it is." She murmurs, embarrassed, almost, that she's saying it out loud. "Why?"

"I thought maybe we could try something new. You know, like that time we—"

"Are you not happy?" Santana rushes out, hands scratching at her bare thighs.

"What? I'm like, super mega happy, what are you talking about?"

"Why did you buy this?"

"Oh." Realization hits Brittany, and she strokes Santana's arm, trying to calm down the anxious panic she sees rising in her throat. "It's because I'm _so_ happy with you that I…wanted to experience something new with you. We've never, you know, done anything like this before, and when I walked past the store today, I was just like…thinking it would be really fucking hot."

"You don't think I'm boring?"

"Santana, I just played with your boobs for like an hour, then went down on you for another hour. You really think I think you're boring?"

"I don't know…I'm a grump who works all the time, and who hasn't had sex with you in weeks. I just…get insecure I guess."

"Seriously? I love having sex with you. It's in my top favorite things, after, like, falling asleep with you every night, and waking up with you every morning. I swear, I didn't buy this because I'm not happy. And I didn't want to just spring it on you—" Brittany stifles a laugh, thinking how if she'd just strapped it on, it would have been literally sprung on her. "And we don't even have to use it, I can like, give it to Lauren or Tina or something, if you don't want it."

"Please don't say their names when I'm naked." Santana scrunches her nose and purses her lips. "I…have never…At all."

"Oh." Brittany lets out a long breath, understanding. "Okay."

"I never thought it was something I would want." She covers her face with her arm, and Brittany can tell she's trying to compose herself.

"It was just an idea." Brittany says lamely. "A dumb one."

"I…don't necessarily think it's dumb. I'm just honestly a little freaked out, but, also kind of turned on?" Santana's naked body, already flushed, prickles, and Brittany is intrigued. "So, you'd wear it and…"

"Fuck you, yeah." Brittany breathes into Santana's ear, trying to turn this from clinical to sexy again. "I think it'd be really hot."

"Okay." Santana exhales, and Brittany looks deep into her eyes.

"Okay, like, you want to do it?"

"Yeah." She nods rapidly, pupils blown, and more turned on, Brittany thinks, than she'll admit. Brittany is _really_ glad she looks like that, really glad she wants to _do_ it, and she kisses her deeply, curling her tongue, drinking Santana in completely, letting her taste herself on Brittany's mouth.

"I'm gonna make it so good for you."

"And it it's too much…"

"I'd never make you do anything that's too much. Pinky promise."

Still in her sports bra and panties, Brittany feels Santana's eyes on her the whole time she undresses completely, and fiddles with the straps on the harness. This isn't her first time with one, but this is the first time she cares about making it perfect. As much as the whole idea is pretty much the sexiest thing she's ever imagined, it's also such an act of love that her Santana, who is sometimes really…conservative, even in the bedroom will do this with her, and she finds herself getting weirdly emotional after she attaches the dildo and slowly approaches the bed.

"I love you." Brittany whispers, as she hovers over Santana, and a small hand hesitantly wraps around the silicon appendage.

"I love you too." Santana presses her forehead into Brittany's, and just rests it there for a moment, still exploring with her hand. "This is…strange."

"Bad strange?" Brittany cups Santana's breast, thumbing her nipple and feeling her racing heart.

"No. Just…regular strange. A little…filthy maybe."

"I promise it's not filthy. Ladies have been doing this to each other for like…a thousand years or something. It probably even predates scissoring, and you like scissoring."

"I do like scissoring." Santana laughs nervously, though Brittany feels the friction of her hand motions against her own sex, and is reassured that she's actually into this.

"Want me to go down on you again? Will that relax you?" Brittany quirks an eyebrow and licks her lips.

"No. I think I just…want you to do it, so I stop thinking about it."

"Your wish is my command."

Santana sinks back into the pillows, eyes trained on Brittany, and Brittany presses her knees, spreading her legs fully, and baring Santana most intimately to her. Rather than press the head of the dildo against her sex right away, Brittany dips her hand down, entering Santana with two fingers, and curling them quickly to prepare her for the new sort of penetration. Santana moans at the sensation, and Brittany does it a few more times, before she kisses the most sensitive spot on her neck, and slowly begins to slide into her wet entrance.

"Go slow." Santana gasps, eyes opening wide as Brittany reaches for her hand to squeeze it and reassure her.

"Slow as you want." Brittany hums, kissing her again to distract her from the discomfort. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She nods slowly. "Feels…not bad."

"Here." Brittany lets go of Santana's hand, and brings it to her sex, rubbing small circles on her clit as she pushes further in with the dildo. "Better?"

Santana sighs, weaving her hands through Brittany's hair, "Mmhm, much."

Brittany continues to ease, until the toy is fully sheathed inside Santana, and she's able to begin thrusting, slowly at first. She can feel the way Santana clenches with each entry against her own sex, and she lets out a wanton moan. If she's being honest, she can get off _solely_ from pleasuring Santana, but the friction on her own bundle of nerves is delicious, and she has to remind herself not to thrust to hard, not to hurt Santana in seeking her own pleasure. But Santana, for her part, seems to be enjoying it, and she's taken over for Brittany, rubbing her own sex, while Brittany pushes up on her hands to get a better angle.

There's nothing Brittany lives more than to watch Santana in the throws of passion, and when Santana bites down _hard_ on Brittany's shoulder, she actually comes, her thrusting motions becoming a little haphazard as her body twitches and spasms. But she doesn't stop, not until Santana's back arches. Not until she cries out her name, _ugh, Brittany, so…fuck…Brittany!_ It's the absolute sexiest thing, and Brittany keeps moving in and out of her, waiting until Santana finally comes down, and pushes her away, unable to handle anymore of her motions.

Quick to unbuckle the harness, though her body still shakes a little, Brittany curls up beside Santana, kissing all over her face, showering her with the sort of tender affection she always likes after sex. It's one of those little _things_ about her that Brittany's come to understand in their time together. Santana is so tough on the outside, but inside, she's like a kitten who likes to be petted and attended to, something Brittany _lives_ for.

"I'm glad we did that." Santana mumbles, still clearly embarrassed by how much she enjoyed it.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It was really different, but…in a good way I think. I still prefer your mouth most." She averts her gaze a little, but finds Brittany's hand to squeeze. "But it was good. Did you…"

"Huge one." Brittany laughs. "It was really hot when you bit me."

"Oh God." Santana buries her face in Brittany's bruised shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I love it. And I love that you're all like, relaxy and cute right now."

" _Relaxy,_ huh?"

"Yup, totally. I accomplished my mission."

"Thank you…for wanting to relax me, Britt. I felt like I was going to snap in half all week, and I hated that I had absolutely no time to pay attention to you. The fact that you still wanted to make my night nice means a lot."

"I know you work really hard, babe. And sometimes I get like, mega jealous of your job when you're stuck in the office all night, and I have to watch _Kate and Allie,_ and yell at them to just _do it already_ all by myself. But I still worry about you not relaxing and getting sick again more than anything."

"I'm trying not to let the stress eat me up." Santana pulls the blanket over them, and curls up into Brittany, forgetting that she should get up and use the bathroom, and get into her pajamas. "Having someone to be accountable to makes it easier. I know you're downstairs and you care, and it makes me take breaths. And I love when you come up with a new glass of ice, or a snack for me, even though I know you think it bothers me. Getting a kiss from you when I'm stressed out is basically the best thing anyone can do for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You're good for me, Brittany Pierce. You open up my world to…all kinds of things." Santana flushes again, most obviously at the memory of what they'd just done. "And you keep me from being so grounded that I can't see what's right in front of my face."

"I mean, sometimes you're super blind." Brittany laughs. "But you're good for me too, you know. You bring me back to earth when I get too carried away with fantastical ideas, but you also never let me forget to dream."

"Never. I want you to always do what makes you happy. I mean that, with everything in me."

"Thank you for that, babe. It means way more than you even know."


	20. Heartache to Heartache

Artie and Mike decide to have a wedding. They plan it really quickly, and Santana is surprised to hear that Brittany is performing the ceremony. She can't quite put her finger on why the whole thing makes her uncomfortable, but it does. She doesn't express that to Brittany, because she's beside herself with the preparations for it, acting almost as if it's her own wedding. It's the strangest feeling in the world for Santana, but she pushes it down, and the day of the ceremony, she puts on one of her formal dresses, and does her hair and makeup while she waits for Brittany to be ready to go to Holly's bar.

When they get there, there's cheap champagne, and Santana sips from a glass, trying to hide her displeasure with each taste. She tries not to be a snob, she really does, but the champagne is disgusting, and she ends up going to the bar to order a scotch on the rocks from Holly while Brittany is off doing whatever it is she's doing with Artie and Mike.

"What's the matter with you, sweet cheeks?" Holly asks, sliding her drink across the bar. "Look like you're going to a funeral rather than a wedding."

"Nothing, I'm fine." Santana shakes her head. "I'm just not a fan of big functions."

"Aren't you from the Gold Coast?"

"Precisely why I'm not into it. I grew up going to them every weekend."

"Well this is going to be a party like you've never seen. These boys sure do know how to have a good time. Even the sick ones are coming, it's going to be the event of the year."

"I'm sure it'll be lovely."

"I'll come sit with you for it, since I know your girl will be up there doing the thing."

"Oh, yeah, cool…thanks."

As the bar begins to fill, Santana finds a seat toward the back. Though her girlfriend is the best friend of both "grooms," Santana doesn't feel comfortable sitting up toward the front. So, she sits alone, while Holly continues to serve drinks at the bar, and she watches everyone come in. The sight of some of the men, sicker than she's ever seen another human being sends chills of anxiety down her body, and she wonders what she'd do if a plague like this impacted lesbians the way it does the gay men. She thinks of the partners she'd had before Brittany, always casual, nearly always nameless, and she thinks of the partners Brittany had that she has no idea about—because she doesn't want to. She wonders how utterly awful it would be to wait, knowing you could fall sick any day, with something there is no cure to.

She thinks of the men she's read about, sitting in the doctor's office with their current partners, and learning that they're both dying. She considers what it would be like, if it were her and Brittany, learning that their time together would be cut short, all because of something that happened long before they were together. She wonders how she'd be. Would she hold her hand in public, as they learned they were dying? Would she hide away, leave Brittany, like so many men have done to their partners so Brittany wouldn't have to watch her die? What would she tell her parents, if telling them she was sick meant telling them that she'd done something so utterly despicable to them? Would they take her in, let her die there in peace, or would they cast her out in the cold, leave her to find someone who isn't her lover to take care of her? The thoughts make her sick to her stomach, and she wonders if this isn't the reason why she's given so much money to the cause, but hasn't yet been able to look a person dying of AIDS in the eye.

As she sits alone, getting drunk on her second scotch, she thinks of how odd it is for Mike and Artie to celebrate when everyone around them is dying. Maybe that's what her problem with this whole thing is, that it's so out of place. Not that she doesn't enjoy the happiness she has with Brittany in their everyday life, but there's no spectacle of it. They just exist, though maybe that's just as wrong, when so many of the men who have showed up here today won't have the opportunity to do that for much longer.

"Hey everyone." Brittany grins from the makeshift altar at the front of the room. "Glad you all made it out here tonight to watch two of my best friends get married. As we all know, because of the goddamned U.S. government, Mike and Artie can't get legally married, nor can they get married in any church around here. But that doesn't mean we're not going to shower them with all the love in the world while they commit to each other for the rest of their lives. DJ, cue _The Power of Love."_

Santana watches Mike wheel Artie down the aisle, the two of them wearing powder blue tuxes, and she listens as Brittany speaks the most heartfelt words about their love. She thinks maybe her eyes are the only dry ones in the house. She doesn't know what the hell her problem is, but she must have one, if she can sit there alone and not cry. Maybe she just needs more to drink, maybe her work week has just been shit and she has no room in her heart for emotion after coming home on the verge of tears every night. That has to be it, she can't be totally heartless at the sight of her amazing girlfriend performing a makeshift marriage ceremony for two of her best friends.

After the ceremony is over, Santana helps clear the chairs from the dance floor, and she leans into Brittany's side as they watch Mike and Artie share their first dance. She thinks it's sweet, the way they've learned to dance together, even with Artie in a wheelchair, and she gives Brittany a small smile, accepting her hand when she leads her out onto the dance floor to dance with the other couples. She averts her eyes from anything that will make her sad—though she knows that she's privileged to be able to do that—and she looks into Brittany's, wishing, wishing, wishing that a day will come when she doesn't feel such a deep, burning shame in her heart at everything she is, and the community she exists on the very fringes of.

Santana is quiet when they get home, and she makes herself another scotch. Brittany watches her from the corner of the kitchen, but she doesn't say a word. She just stands there, as if she's waiting for Santana to say something to her. But Santana just sips her drink, letting the alcohol burn down her throat, and Brittany grabs a beer from the refrigerator, drinking it in two gulps.

"What's going on with you today?" Brittany finally asks. "You've looked half-miserable all day."

"Nothing." Santana snaps back. "I'm fine."

"I can obviously tell by the tone of your voice when you're not fine, but good try."

"Jesus, Brittany, why do you have to do this?"

"Get you to talk about what's bothering you? I'm your girlfriend, I think I deserve to know."

"I just don't get it, okay?"

"Get what?"

"The whole thing, the spectacle of it. It's not like having a marriage ceremony like that means anything?"

"Really?" Brittany huffs, grabbing another beer and taking a long swig. "How can you even say that?"

"Because it's the truth. What does it even mean? They're exactly the same right now as they were five hours ago."

"It's _nothing_ to stand up in front of the people you care about, and proclaim your love for each other? That means a pretty damn lot to me."

"Marriage is a financial contract, and without it being a legal marriage, it's not even that."

" _Marriage is a financial contract?_ Do you even hear yourself sometimes? Marriage is so much more than a goddamn financial contract. It's about loving someone and wanting to be with them for the rest of your life. But good, I'm glad to know how you feel about that."

"Seriously, are you turning this around and making it like I'm some kind of bad person?"

"Oh, please. No one is making it like you're a bad person. I'm just glad to know where you stand on that."

"You act like we can even get legally married, and like it matters. It's never going to happen."

"Wow." Brittany slams her bottle down and crosses her arms over her chest. "Just wow."

"What?"

"I'm sitting here, living with you like we're going to be together for the rest of our lives, but you don't even see the sanctity in getting people who care about you together to watch you commit to that. Whatever."

"Just because I think a stupid ceremony is bullshit doesn't mean I don't plan to spend the rest of my life with you."

"And do you even care what I want? What if I wanted the _stupid ceremony_ so I could show people what you mean to me? God, I can't even believe you sometimes, you can watch something like that, with all these people dying, and still seeing that there's love and beauty in the world, and think it's fucking awful."

"That's another thing. The whole thing was like rubbing it in everyone's faces."

"Oh my God. How were we watching the same thing? Did you even look at how happy everyone was? People want to see that. Most people don't want to wallow in misery and death."

"Whatever, Brittany, I'm not going to fight with you about this."

"Why? Because you know that I'm right, and you just hate being wrong?"

"No, because it's a stupid fucking fight."

"Well I don't think it is. I think you're being kind of a bitch, and you're ruining something that meant a lot to me."

"If my opinion ruins it, then clearly it wasn't a tightly held belief."

"Do you even listen to yourself? Whatever, I'm going downtown, I'm not staying here like this."

"You're going downtown at eleven-thirty at night?"

"Yeah, I am. I'll go stay with Sugar, I can't even look at you right now."

"Real mature, Brittany."

"Are you honestly questioning my maturity right now?" Brittany barks. "I'll see you tomorrow, or whenever you get over this bad attitude you have about things that make other people happy."

Brittany brushes past Santana, and she grabs a duffle bag to fill with her things. Santana is so mad that she doesn't even try to stop her from leaving. She just finishes her drink, and she sits on the couch, staring at the turned off television. She knew there was a reason she didn't plan on expressing her feelings about this stupid wedding, and she probably knew that Brittany would have overreacted about it. But she felt cornered, and she opened her mouth, and now they're in a fight, and it makes her sick to her stomach.

When Brittany doesn't come home before bed, Santana tosses and turns all night. She has to work in the morning, and when she finally gets up, twenty minutes later than she should, she looks ravaged from lack of sleep. She gets dressed, and she just feels absolutely miserable and hung over. After she manages to down a cup of coffee, she gets a cab down to the bank, and she thinks it's entirely possible that she might kill one of her employees if they look at her the wrong way. She prides herself on keeping her composure, but her patience is worn thin from her frustration with herself, and she snaps at Terri before she locks the door to her office and sets to work dealing with some of the week's account issues.

She ends up working much later than she'd planned, and by the time she finishes up, only Hummel remains at his desk. She's frankly surprised he's still there, considering everyone is quick to get out the door on Friday evenings. Before she can go, she has to wait for him to be finished, and she huffs a little to herself. All she wants to do is go home, have a glass of wine, and maybe throw up a little, but instead, she sits down in one of the plush chairs, and she waits.

"I'm sorry, Santana. You're usually here later than this, and I…I started working on this a little late." Hummel stammers a little, and Santana shakes her head.

"It's fine, just finish up what you're doing. I'll wait."

It takes him nearly forty minutes to finish what he was working on, and Santana repeatedly looks at her watch. She's normally here at least a half an hour later than this, so she understands why he'd expect that, but still, her head throbs a little, and she wants to go home. When he's finally done, she locks the door behind them, and as it's started to rain, she knows that getting a cab is going to be a total nightmare.

"Did you want to share a cab?" He asks. "We're both going uptown, and it'll be easier to get one than two."

"Didn't you used to take the subway home?"

"I did, until I promised my dad that I'd start taking cabs instead. He…" Hummel looks down. "Worries about my safety."

"He's not wrong." Santana shakes her head, and reaches her hand up for the first cab she sees with her lights on. She slides across the seat, and Hummel gets in behind her. "That was better than I expected."

"I suppose because it's so late. I apologize if I kept you from getting to a date early."

"No date tonight." She sighs. "I'm not even sure she'll be home."

"Oh, well that doesn't sound good." Hummel looks out the window, and Santana knows he's trying to decide if he's crossing a boundary.

"Have you ever been to a gay wedding?"

"My friends are too young to be married."

"Don't you think it's a little ridiculous? What's the point of getting married if you're not getting any of the benefits of it?"

"Because why should they tell us what we can and can't have?" Hummel asks, finally looking toward her. "It's bad enough they're letting us die, why should they get to choose how we have happiness?"

"I just…don't understand it. We went to Brittany's friends' wedding last night, and the whole thing turned into this huge fight between us. I was incredibly uncomfortable with it, and she just doesn't get it."

"At the risk of you getting upset with me, I don't think I get it either. What isn't there to be happy about at a wedding?"

"It seemed like such a spectacle. There were all these men there in various stages of decline, and here were these two healthy men, standing up and saying they're going to have this beautiful long life together. It's morbid."

"I have to disagree with you." Hummel wrings his hands. "I…lost a lot of people in San Francisco, and not one of them wished for any of the rest of us to have anything but a long, happy life. I may not have been to any weddings, but every occasion we could find was one for joy, when joy is in such short demand. I imagine that the sick men at that wedding were grateful to see that happiness still exists, I don't know…"

"Would you get married? Even though it's nothing but words?"

"Words mean a lot. I don't know your relationship in the slightest, beyond how happy you looked when I came to dinner at your house, but I think words mean a lot more than nothing at all."

"I'm not sure that's ever something I'd want." Santana whispers, surprised that she's confessing such a thing to Hummel.

"I think that's alright. But it doesn't mean you can't feel happiness for those who do."

"I'm pretty certain now that it's something Brittany _does_ want. Just another thing that I'll struggle to give her."

"I think that's a conversation you ought to be having with her, rather than me."

"I'm looking for advice here, Hummel. I don't exactly have a whole lot of friends to talk to about this."

"And my advice is to talk to her. No offense, but you've been in a mood all day. The only thing that'll help is dealing with the problem." The cab driver pulls up in front of Kurt's apartment, and he gives Santana a pointed look. "Do it."

Santana mulls over Kurt's advice for the rest of her ride home. The last thing she wants to do is to piss Brittany off further, if she even comes home, but if she doesn't talk about this, she's going to drive herself absolutely crazy. When she gets home, Brittany is in the kitchen wearing her work clothes making dinner, and Santana stands in the entryway, waiting to be seen. When Brittany sees her, a look crosses her face, and Santana sucks in a deep breath. She's crazy in love with this girl, but sometimes it's really hard, and she never knows quite how to fix things when they get hard.

"Hey." She mumbles, looking down at her feet.

"Hi."

"You came back."

"Well, obviously. I live here."

"I know, but you were mad."

"Still pretty mad." Brittany's tone is clipped, and she stirs the pasta in the water. "But I slept like shit on the couch over there, and I'm not really trying to do it again."

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" She challenges.

"For last night."

"Yeah, well, I kinda figured. What part of last night are you sorry for?"

"Why are you making this difficult?"

"I'm not making it difficult. I genuinely want to know what part of last night you're sorry for."

"All of it?"

"Are you asking me? Or are you actually saying it?"

"Jesus, Brittany."

"Don't think Jesus has anything to do with it. But that's not exactly in my wheelhouse."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Brittany crosses her arms over her chest.

"Look, I'm sorry I ruined your excitement about the wedding, I'm sorry I called you immature, and I'm sorry that you slept at Sugar's last night." Santana huffs, trying to let her guard down enough to sound sincere. "And I'm sorry I said marriage was just about money."

"You come from like…this totally weird place sometimes. It's like, I don't know, we're from two different worlds, and this side of you comes out that makes you sound like your parents, I don't know."

"Brittany." Santana is highly offended, and she backs away from Brittany.

"I'm not saying it to insult you, I'm just saying it's how you were raised. My parents don't give a shit about money, so I don't really give a shit about money. Your parents obviously do, and so do you. But to say that that's all marriage is about…God, it makes me wonder what you even think about me, who has basically no money, and who's been living here with you, barely paying a fraction of the bills…"

"You know I don't care about that."

"Do I? How do I know what you really think, when you come home from this beautiful ceremony completely miserable?"

"Do you even know how hard it was for me to see people so sick in contrast to how happy the event was supposed to be?"

"No, I have no idea." Brittany snarks. "I've never seen anyone sick, I haven't had friends who have died. It's just you, for the first time getting a real wakeup call, who feels any kind of way about this."

"I get it, I've been sheltered from it."

"Well that's the understatement of the decade."

"Can we just talk without you making me feel like a fucking idiot?"

"I don't know, Santana. You sort of blindsided me with your way of thinking."

"I don't think I want to get married."

"Oh my God. Oh my _God."_ Brittany pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is what this is all about, isn't it? You think I'm about to run out and plan a wedding for us."

"You keep trying to make me sound stupid."

"No, I don't. That's all in your head. Mike and Artie have been together for _years._ They've had all kinds of scares about their health, Artie is in a wheelchair for God's sake, and just because they're ready to have this big commitment ceremony in the face of all the terrible crap that's going on in the world doesn't mean I'm about to rush down the aisle with _you._ I think things have been really good for us as they are, but you've chosen to totally overreact about this, and be kind of shitty to me."

"How the hell have I been shitty? Because I told you how I feel?"

"No, because you threw it in my face that I was immature because I wanted to leave. I get it, you're older than me, you have all of this experience that has apparently made you really bitter—"

"I'm not _bitter,_ I'm realistic."

"Which implies that I'm not. I wanted to enjoy last night, and you moping around made it really hard for me to do that."

"Well I'm sorry for that." Santana mumbles. "I didn't feel comfortable."

"And there are a lot of things that I do that make me uncomfortable. But I don't act the way you did about it. I'm upset with you, and I hate being upset with you."

"Can we just talk, instead of screaming at each other?"

"I guess." Brittany runs her hand through her hair. "But I'm still really mad."

"Let me just answer your first question, okay? I'm sorry that I made it obvious how unhappy I was, and I'm sorry I called marriage a financial contract. It's just…really hard for me to know that I can never really have with you this big thing that other people can have. I just…can't imagine having a ceremony like that with my family not even knowing it's happening. Artie and Mike were talking about being _husbands,_ and I don't exist in a world where I could call you my wife. It's hard enough for me not being able to call you my girlfriend, and having to pretend that it doesn't bother me every time someone at work assumes that I have a male partner. And I just think about all of those dying people—"

"The sick people really bothered you, didn't they?"

"They didn't bother me, the whole idea that it's happening just makes me physically ill. And the thing that I think really got me about the wedding is that if something happened to Artie or Mike tomorrow, the other one would have no right to be with them. I shouldn't have said that marriage is a financial contract, but it _is_ a contract for a lot of things, including being a part of your partners medical care, and they don't get to have that. I can't help that it bothers me."

"I…get that." Brittany nods slowly, stepping a little closer to Santana. "But do you think you can try and understand what I'm saying? About how it's a symbol of commitment, and they wanted to do that in the face of everything else?"

"I…can understand that." Santana sucks in a breath. "And it looked like it made them really happy."

"It did. They really wanted that."

"I don't know if it's ever something I'll be comfortable doing."

"I think you've made that clear." Brittany laughs a little. "But I'm not asking for it. I'm happy as we are. If things change, then we'll talk about it. But the last thing I want to do is fight with you."

"I hate it so much." Santana opens a bottle of wine, while Brittany dumps the limp and overcooked pasta into the colander in the sink.

"Well, this is basically ruined." She pouts at it. "I'm just going to throw it out."

"We can just order or something. I'm honestly not even hungry."

"You should eat though, especially if you're drinking. I don't want your ulcer to act up again."

"My stomach has been killing me all day. Being upset sucks. I was so afraid you were going to come home and break up with me."

"Santana." Brittany takes her hand. "I was mad at you, but I never for a second thought about breaking up with you."

"It felt like a really bad fight."

"Honey." She shakes her head. "We're okay."

"Are we really?"

"We are."

Santana is still a little distant as she calls and orders a pizza. She's not sure how it'll be on her stomach, but she knows Brittany is right that she should eat something. She finishes her first glass of wine, and pours another. After such a big fight, she feels really needy, but she's hesitant to just curl into Brittany's arms, even as they sit together on the couch eating pizza. Instead, she eats slowly, and she gets up to put the leftovers away. When she's finished with that, she goes back into the living room, and she sits down at Brittany's side. It doesn't take long before Brittany puts her arm around her, and she rests her head on her shoulder, trying to be content where she sits, even as she still fears that the fight they had will resurface.

"How's your stomach?"

"It's okay, I guess. I don't know."

"Did you take your pills last night?"

"Honestly, no. I forgot, and then I didn't want to take them this morning and mess up my schedule. I'll take them in a little while."

"Let me get them for you, you should take them."

"You don't have to do that." Santana shakes her head.

"I know, but I want to." Brittany gets up, and Santana sinks back into the couch cushions, waiting for her to come back. When she does, she has Santana's pill bottle and a glass of water in her hand.

"I shouldn't be drinking this wine right now…I just…I don't know."

"If you're drinking because you're stressed about what happened with us, you can stop. I really don't want you to end up back in the hospital."

"Yeah. I guess I'm going to."

"I'm super exhausted. I didn't sleep at all last night."

"Neither did I. I'm not going to make it up for _Dallas_ tonight."

"We can just go to bed now, if you want to." Brittany offers.

"Okay, I think that sounds really good. As long as we're good, I think I'll be able to sleep tonight."

"You'll wake me up if your stomach is bothering you?"

"I will, I promise."


	21. Through the Good Times and the Bad

The argument Brittany and Santana had smooths over, and the fact that they were able to resolve it quickly is something that Brittany is glad about. She continues her work at the dance studio, but she's surprised when she actually manages to get an audition for a new Broadway show that's opening. She doesn't want to get her hopes up, because she knows the odds of actually getting something are slim to none, but Santana encourages her to go for it. As much as she wishes she could let her dream go, it's still there inside of her, and she practices endlessly to make sure she has every single step of her dance routine down pat. If she could do this…well, it would prove something, and she needs to make sure she gets it right.

The only audition time she could get was at eight o'clock at night, and it happens to be on a night that Santana has a cocktail party for work. Tensions run high in their house in the days prior, with Santana stressed about her party and Brittany stressed about her audition, but they don't fight. They just sort of give each other space to work out their own thing, and it manages to keep the peace even when both feel like they're on the verge of exploding.

Brittany goes to the audition, and she's certain that she nailed it. Whether that matters or not is yet to be determined though, and she's really glad that now she at least has work to distract her, so she doesn't sit home by the phone like she used to. Chances are, they're not going to call. Chances are they've heard about her, and as she rides the subway home, she stews, thinking of how one misstep in the face of Rachel Berry really doomed her career. When she gets home, she sees the light flashing on the answering machine, and though she knows it's probably too soon to have heard about a callback, she's still anxious as she checks it.

 _Hi Brittany._ Santana's voice comes through the machine. _I'm not sure what time you'll get this, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm at St. Vincent's. I got really sick at the party tonight, and I ended up taking a cab to the emergency room. I'm fine, I don't want you to worry, but I wanted you to know._

She can hear the waver in Santana's voice, and immediately, she goes into panic mode. Despite the fact that Santana doesn't want her to work, she's worried a _lot._ Quickly, she gets shoes back on her feet, and she grabs her bag. She knows she should probably call St. Vincent's first and make sure Santana is still there, but all she wants to do is to get down to the hospital. She hails a cab, and when she reaches the hospital, she throws money at the driver and she tumbles out of the cab while it's still moving.

"Santana Lopez, I'm here for Santana Lopez." She tells the receptionist, all out of breath.

"Miss, it's after visiting hours."

"She was in the emergency room. She called me, so I'm here."

"If she's in the emergency room, it's for immediate family only. If she's been admitted, you can come back in the morning and visit her."

"I'm her sister." Brittany lies quickly. "That's why she called me."

"You're Santana _Lopez's_ sister?" The receptionist looks at her incredulously.

"I was adopted." She rolls her eyes as the woman taps the keys on her computer. "Just tell me where she is."

"She's in the emergency room. You need a pass, what's your name?"

"Brittany. Brittany _Lopez._ " The name rolls off her tongue with such ease. "Thank you."

Taking the pass from the woman and sticking it on her shirt, Brittany follows the signs for the emergency room. When she finally finds Santana, she's laying on a bed in her black cocktail dress, shoes neatly placed on the floor beside her. She has an empty vomit pan in her lap, and she looks utterly, utterly exhausted.

"Hey." She whispers, not wanting to startle Santana who picks at her cuticles. "I'm here."

"You didn't have to come all the way down here, Brittany. How did they even let you in?"

"I just told them I was your sister. And of course I can down, are you like, totally crazy? Are you okay? What happened?"

"I was at the party and my boss was asking about my love life again. I started to feel really sick to my stomach, and when I excused myself to the bathroom, I vomited blood again."

"Santana!" Brittany shouts, then is immediately silenced by two nurses. "Sorry, sorry."

"I'm fine. They just ran some tests, but they move so damn slow around here, I'll probably be stuck in this bed all night."

"Let them be thorough. This isn't normal that you keep getting sick like this."

"It's just an ulcer. I'm going to be fine, you don't have to stay."

"I'm staying. If you think I'm leaving you here alone, you're nuts."

Definitely, Brittany sits down in the folding chair across from Santana's bed, and she waits. After what feels like hours, the doctor comes back in, and Brittany is forced to step out while he talks to Santana. When she goes back into where Santana is, she tells her that she's being admitted, and Brittany knows that she won't be allowed up to her room outside of visiting hours. It makes her a little sick to know that she can't be with Santana while they continue to run tests on her, but she doesn't want to make a scene and embarrass Santana, so she just gives her the quickest squeeze of the hand, whispers that she loves her and goes down to the waiting room.

She doesn't fall asleep, despite the fact that it's late. Instead, she gets coffee and she sits awake talking to a Middle Eastern family. It's good to have someone to talk to, it makes Brittany feel a lot less overwhelmed, and when she finally falls asleep in a chair around three-am, she's a lot better than she was when she first got down there.

As soon as visiting hours open up, Brittany is up in Santana's room, sitting at her bedside while she sleeps. She's glad that she's at least getting some rest, but she's desperate to know what's going on. Since it's a hospital, and people hold other people's hands by their bed, Brittany takes advantage of the opportunity to take Santana's small hand in her own, and she holds it until she starts to stir.

"Hey, Santana." Brittany murmurs when she opens her eyes. "You okay."

"Forgot I was here. Shit. Did you stay here all night?"

"I did, I didn't want to leave you here."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I kinda did, you're my girlfriend, and I refuse to leave the hospital while you're stuck in here. Did you see the doctor?"

"Mmhm." Santana rubs her eyes, and Brittany knows that she's probably left her contact lenses in for way too long. "I have an intractable peptic ulcer, and he wants to do surgery."

"Surgery?" Brittany feels herself shouting, before she modulates her tone. "Seriously?"

"No, I'm kidding about it."

"Sorry, sorry. When?"

"This morning, I guess. I'm going to have to stay overnight again, and then probably take the week off of work."

"Well then I'll take off work too, someone's gonna have to stay home and take care of you."

"Brittany, I'll be fine."

"Santana, can you just stop pretending that you're the toughest thing in the world for a second? Let me take care of you, please."

"If I stop pretending I'm tough, I'm going to start to cry, and I don't want that."

"It's okay for you to cry. Surgery is really scary. I had a tonsillectomy once and I actually peed my pants in the pre-op room. I totally get it."

"Thank you." Santana laughs a little. "I needed that."

Brittany hates to leave Santana when the nurse comes in to prep her for her surgery, but she has no choice. Because she knows she won't be able to see her for awhile, she gets in a cab and goes home, wanting to get some clothes for Santana that aren't a cocktail dress, and wanting to make sure she has her glasses so she can actually see after having to take her contacts out for the surgery. Once she has a little bag put together, she goes back downtown and she parks herself in the waiting room, knowing that she won't get to see Santana until it's time to take her home. This whole process is utterly painful, but there's nothing she can do, and she clenches her jaw and just wishes someone would care that she loves the woman in surgery more than anyone else in the world.

Even after going all the way home and coming back, it's still another few hours before Santana is finally out of surgery and back in her room and Brittany can see her. While she's in the elevator heading upstairs, she thinks of her fight with Santana about marriage. It infuriates her that even if they had a ceremony like Mike and Artie, she still wouldn't have been allowed in the recovery room, and she still would be stuck to seeing Santana only during visiting hours. Brittany lives in a world that's open, being in theater, but the real world isn't, and it makes her blood boil as she gets up to Santana's floor and sees her half-passed out on the hospital bed.

"Hey, you." Brittany forces a smile despite her frustration. "You made it."

"I feel so dizzy." Santana grumbles. "And my stomach still really hurts."

"Well I'd think so if they just cut you open. Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"No. I want you to sit by me. I wish you could kiss me right now and make it better." She whispers. "But I'll settle for you just sitting by my bed."

"I brought you some clothes for when you get to come home." Brittany fingers the strings on Santana's hospital gown. "I figured you wouldn't wanna go home in a cocktail dress."

"No, I don't. I want to pretend that party never happened, so thank you."

"Was the party that bad, I mean, like, before you got sick?"

"It was the usual." Santana closes her eyes, and Brittany thinks it's the painkillers she's on that are doing it to her. "Why don't I ever bring a boyfriend? How long will I be single? It's as bad as going home to my family, and I have a high ranking position at that bank."

"Ugh, gross." Brittany wrinkles her nose. "I hate them."

"Me too. So much. My whole body feels tired, if I sleep, will you stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere until they kick me out, babe, don't you worry."

Brittany keeps her word, even as Santana is in and out of sleep all day. At eight pm sharp a nurse comes to tell her visiting hours are over and she has to go. Giving Santana a quick squeeze of the hand and promising to be back when they discharge her in the morning, Brittany leaves. She hates that she has to, she hates that she can't sleep in a chair by Santana's side, but she doesn't fight it.

The house is eerily quiet when she gets home, and considering she never went to bad last night, she collapses onto the bed and passes out without even brushing her teeth or changing into her pajamas. When she wakes up the next morning, it takes Brittany a few seconds to remember that Santana is in the hospital. When she does though, she quickly jumps out of bed and gets into the shower, wanting to get down to the hospital when visiting hours start so hopefully Santana will be discharged.

Brittany can't be in the room for Santana meeting with the doctor, so when she gets to the hospital, she's stuck sitting in a chair outside of her door. When she goes in though, Santana tells her that she's being discharged, and though she looks completely exhausted and in pain, Brittany is just glad that she gets to come home. Brittany may not be a nurse, or even remotely good at taking care of people, but she'll be damned if she doesn't do this right for Santana.

Once Santana gets herself dressed, a nurse comes in and wheels her out to the curb. Brittany is overeager hailing a cab, but it's kind of rainy out, and she doesn't want Santana to sit there like that, so she steps out into the street and keeps waving until finally one pulls over and they can get inside.

"You okay?" She asks Santana, once she's in the cab and has her head leaned back against the seat.

"Pretty uncomfortable. I just want to be in bed and take more painkillers."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I'm going to be fine, I just need you to let me tell you that I'm going to be fine."

Brittany doesn't argue with Santana, though she's really not sure she should have left the hospital in a state like this. She has more than enough money that she could have afforded to stay, so Brittany's not sure why the shoved her out just a few hours after the surgery. But regardless, even though she's never done this before, Brittany is going to be the best caregiver for her that she can possibly be. She's going to make sure she gets well, she's going to eliminate all of the stress from her life—at least temporarily, if she can't do it permanently—and she's going to give her the space she needs to heal.

When they get back home, Brittany helps Santana up the front steps and into their bedroom. Santana moans and groans as Brittany helps her into bed, and she wishes she could take the pain away from her. She's afraid to see the incision, and knowing Santana, Brittany is sure she won't show it to her anyway. She'll be private about this whole thing, and even just after she helps to get her into bed, Brittany can see her claming up.

"Do you want me to get your pills for you?"

"Yeah…okay." Santana nods, her dark eyes full of trepidation as Brittany goes into the kitchen and brings back a bottle of water and the sack of pills she'd dropped on the counter when they came in.

"Are you hungry? Do you want more pillows from the guest room?"

"I just want to sleep. I barely slept last night in the hospital, and I'm exhausted."

"Do you want me to sit with you, or leave you alone?"

"You can sit if you feel like it." Santana sips her water and swallows two pills. "Are you going to work?"

"I took the next three days off. I know you didn't want me to, but I did. After that I'll feel better about leaving you with Millie, but I love you, and I totally want to be the one who takes care of you first, okay?"

"You really are too sweet to me. I'm an ornery bitch with insides that rebelled against me, and you…you're just sweetness and happiness and wonderful."

"I think you're still a little high from your last dose of painkillers, babe."

"I mean it though, no matter how grumpy I am, you're always here to degrumpify me."

"Go to sleep." Brittany laughs, kissing Santana's lips. "I love you."

While Santana sleeps, Brittany leaves her alone. As much as she wants to curl up next to her in bed, she thinks that would probably be uncomfortable for her, and she should just…not do that. Instead, she goes into the living room and forces herself to watch TV. She wishes she knew how to cook, so she could make a big pot of chicken soup or something but there's probably no learning now. Instead, when she gets bored of the television, she goes outside and walks to the deli, bringing back a big container of chicken and rice soup and pouring it into a bowl so it will be easy to heat up for Santana when she wakes up.

"Britt?" Santana calls from the bedroom, and Brittany hops from the kitchen all the way to her, not wasting any time. "Did you go out?"

"I got you chicken soup! I know you said that you probably won't have much of an appetite, but I figured you should eat something…or something and I can't cook so…do you want some?"

"As much as I appreciate you getting it for me, I'm just not in the mood right now. All I want to do is sleep, everything hurts so much more than I thought it would."

"Do you think…they let you leave too soon?" Brittany asks trepidatiously.

"I couldn't stay in there anymore. I hated that everything was so strict…with you."

"It's dumb. Like, your mom would be allowed in there or whatever, but not me."

"I know, and I didn't even call my mother."

"You didn't?"

"I will, I guess." Santana sighs, then winces. "I just know that she's going to say that all of this is caused by the fact that I can't just get married like all of my cousins, and if I didn't insist upon doing a man's job, I would be fine."

"She's exhausting, honestly. I'd like to tell her a thing or two."

"Trust me, so do I. But I keep the peace because she's my mother."

"Yeah, I know, but just because she's your mother doesn't mean she gets to treat you like that."

"Let's just drop it, okay? I feel too shitty to have this conversation right now."

"Yeah, fine, whatever you want." Brittany squeezes Santana's hand. "Are you going back to sleep?"

"Mmhm. I'm sorry, Britt, I'm just beat."

"Babe, sleep all you want. I'm gonna go watch TV or something, and then maybe I'll take a nap."

Before Brittany gets a response, Santana is passed out again. Wanting to leave her be, she goes out into the living room and turns on the television. There's not much on in the middle of the day on a Monday, but she settles on some soap opera and sprawls out on the couch. Millie comes in late on Mondays, so Brittany knows she should be here any minute, and if she's telling the truth, she kind of wants someone to talk to about how much Santana being like this worries her. She really hopes the surgery helped, she hopes she won't have as many problems with her stomach anymore, but even though she knows it's for the best, seeing her all laid up sucks.

When Millie lets herself in, Brittany jumps up from the couch. She doesn't want to freak her out that the house isn't empty like it usually is when she gets there, so she calls out to her, and waits for the older woman to enter the living room.

"Hey there, Brittany. What are you doing home?"

"Santana's actually home too." Brittany shrugs a little, getting a kink out of her shoulder. "She had surgery yesterday."

"Surgery? Are you kidding me? I would've come over and made sure you had food ready for when she got home. I wish you would have called."

"I don't think she would have wanted to bother you. I'm not even sure Mercedes knows yet, you know how private she is."

"Well I'm going to make sure she has a real nice dinner tonight. I'll leave cleaning the bedroom for later in the week so she can keep on resting. Are you headed out to work?"

"No." Brittany shakes her head. "I took off for a few days, wanted to make sure she was alright before I left her alone. I guess I'll be hoping that you keep an eye on her after I go back."

"Sure I will, don't you know I care about her like my own kid?"

"I do know that, Millie, and seriously, thank you. She trusts you, so it's not like some stranger's gonna be bugging her."

"She oughta just be resting. That poor thing's gonna work herself to death if she doesn't start taking it easy."

"Tell me about it. But there's no talking to her. I don't know, Millie, I think she's punishing herself sometimes."

"She hasn't had it easy. The happiest I've ever seen her is now, with you around. Before she met you, she'd put in fifteen, sixteen hour days, six days a week. She'd hardly ever eat or sleep. At least now she seems to have balanced out a little. It's not my place to talk about it though…"

"I'd never say anything. You've been really nice to her, and I'm glad there was someone watching out for her before I came around."

"Miss Jones does too. Always has."

"She doesn't like me much, I don't think. I think she still thinks I'm after Santana's money."

"Everyone's just a little protective of her. But I know you'd never do anything to hurt her. As quiet as you have to keep things, what you have is special." Millie nods her head as she speaks, and Brittany sighs.

"It sucked at the hospital, not being able to go in there with her before the surgery and stuff. We just had a fight recently about marriage, and she doesn't see the point in it, but this is part of why I want it."

"Brittany, Santana's not going to let herself want something she can't have. I'm sure your friends had a beautiful wedding ceremony, but knowing Santana, she'd be looking for the real, legal thing, and if not that, then nothing. It's just how she is."

"And that's okay with me. I just wish we could have something that made her legally mine though. It's scary seeing people around us die, and okay, like, I don't have any money, but if I was really sick, I wouldn't want Santana to be sitting in the waiting room and worrying about visiting hours."

"Someday things'll change, just you keep the faith."

While Millie gets to cleaning, Brittany goes back to her mindless television, and eventually falls asleep on the couch. It's been a long few days, and her body really needs sleep. It's the ringing of the phone that wakes her up, and she jumps from her slumber quickly, not wanting the sound of it to wake up Santana, though she's sure with the pills she's on, she's in a much deeper sleep then she can be waken from by the sound of a phone.

"Hello?"

"Brittany Pierce, please."

"Um…speaking?"

"This is Joe, from _Sunday in the Park With George._ We want you to come in for a callback. Say tomorrow at two?"

"Oh." Brittany is shocked by the phone call, and she also has a long moment where she contemplates not going. Santana is recovering, she should be home. But she also knows Santana, and she knows that she'd tell her to go. If it were _her_ she'd go, so… "Neat, I'll be there."


	22. Cause It's the Only Thing I Want to Do

Santana feels like she's dying. As much as she'd tried to put on a brave front for Brittany, the truth is that she feels like her stomach is going to explode and even the painkillers only numb the pain, they don't stop it completely. Though she sent Brittany away so she could sleep, she's not really sleeping and she wishes Brittany would just come back in and lay with her. But she doesn't want to come off as too needy, she doesn't want Brittany to think it's too much work to take care of her. She just wants to be better again so she can take care of herself.

After about an hour of Santana trying to get comfortable, Brittany comes back into the room to check on her. She has a cold glass of water in her hand and a copy of The Wall Street Journal tucked under her arm and Santana feels one of her frequent swells of affection for her. Brittany smiles, seeing that she's awake, and perched on the edge of the bed.

"Any better, babe?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I'm in agony. Tell me something to take my mind off of this."

"Wellllllll." Brittany draws out the word. "I got a callback for _Sunday In the Park With George_."

"Britt…that's amazing."

"Still not getting my hopes up, not after what happened with _A Chorus Line._ "

"When's the callback?" Santana reaches for the water and squeaks in pain when she twists the wrong way.

"Tomorrow…but I can not go if you think—"

"Brittany Pierce you will go to that audition. I know you're trying to be amazing at taking care of me but the only thing that makes me feel okay right now is sleep. I'm probably going to be asleep the whole time you're gone and then I want you to come home, wake me up and tell me the news."

"Okay! I'm totally glad you want me to go because I kinda already figured you would and said yes."

"Good. Britt, never put anything else before your dreams."

Brittany lays down with Santana for awhile, and Santana thinks that it really does make her feel better. She's able to sleep when Brittany is close by and though she hates to feel needy, she's a horrific patient and just can't help herself. When she wakes up much later the bedroom is dark and Brittany is gone and Santana can hear the sound of her feet against the floor in her dance studio. Through her pain, she smiles a little and takes another dose of her pills. As much as she's dreading it, she knows she has to call her mother so she reaches for the phone by the bed and almost throws up in pain at the awkward angle she contorts her body into while dialing.

"Hi Mami, it's Santana." She tries not to sound too pained as she speaks though her stomach really does throb from the way she's been twisted.

" _It's about time you've called. It's been several weeks now, hasn't it?"_

" _Lo siento_. Work has been busy and I actually just had surgery."

" _You had surgery? And you just now call to tell me this?_ "

"It was emergency surgery, I wasn't aware it was going to happen. It was on my stomach."

" _The stomach problems again? You know who doesn't have stomach problems? Your cousin Maria and she's had four children._ "

"Having children has nothing to do with preventing ulcers."

" _Oh, so now you're a doctor? Being settled in your life and not running around wild keeps you from getting ulcers."_

"I'm very much settled, Mama. I own a nice home, I have a good job, I can afford to travel."

" _But you don't have a man beside you each night and children to care for. That's all I want for you, I don't understand why you can't do that."_

"The doctor said I should be avoiding stress and this conversation is adding to it."

" _Who do you have caring for you while you're ill? Surely you're not relying on your housekeeper."_

"Brittany is taking care of me." Santana sees the door open and Brittany step inside, furrowing her brow at the sight of Santana on the phone.

" _Brittany? Who's Brittany?"_

"My friend who you met at Easter." Santana cringes to have to call her that, but Brittany sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs her thumb over the back of Santana's hand.

" _The blonde girl? The actress?"_

"Dancer."

" _She's not still staying with you, is she?"_

"Yes, she's still staying with me."

"Dios mio. _You continue to carry on like this and people are going to think you're one of those…dykes."_

"I—" Santana stammers, tears welling in her eyes. "I have to go Mama, my medication is taking effect. I'll talk to you soon."

Santana hangs up the phone and buries her head in her hands. It hurts her stomach so much to cry but she can't do anything but. She knows that things are never going to get better with her family, that they'll always have something hateful to say about anyone gay and that they'd never accept her if she were to come out, but to hear her mother say that people are going to presume that she and Brittany are _dykes_ makes Santana ache inside. Perhaps it's because it's the truth that it's so painful, or perhaps it's just her mother's scornful use of that word, Santana can't be certain. All she's certain of is the fact that Brittany wraps her arms around her and she cries into a dance-warm shoulder.

"I guess she doesn't appreciate that I'm still living here?" Brittany ventures a guess and Santana shakes her head.

"I guess you're getting in the way of some strapping man coming and putting babies in me, because that's all she cares about."

"Santana, baby."

"She said people are going to think I'm a dyke." Santana takes a deep breath, struggling with the word on her tongue.

"Well they wouldn't be wrong."

"Brittany."

"I'm sorry, I should have been more sensitive." She kisses along Santana's hairline. "I wish she didn't make you sad like this. You're supposed to be relaxing, not dealing with that."

"It's my own fault for calling, I should know better."

"Um, no, it's totally not your fault. She should be able to have a conversation with you without making you feel super crappy."

"That's just her thing. It's whatever. I've come to accept that I'm never going to be able to come out to my family."

"That makes me so mad." Brittany clenches her fists. "They're supposed to love you no matter what."

"They practically disowned me when I decided to go to an all girls school. Telling them something like this would just end it."

"Would that be the worst thing?"

"They're my _family_ , Brittany. As awful as they can be, I just don't think I can handle losing them."

"Okay. I'm sorry I brought that up."

"It's not your fault. God, none of this is your fault and I hate that you have to feel like I don't think you're good enough for me because you can't even come to family functions with me. Why does it have to be so hard all the time? I just want to call my mom back and tell her that my _girlfriend_ is taking care of me, but I'm too much of a coward to do it."

"I hate when you say you're a coward." Brittany frowned. "You're like, the bravest person I know."

"That's literally the most insane thing you've ever said."

"You don't think it's brave to walk into a room where people openly hate people like us and keep from breaking down? This is your truth, Santana, it doesn't belong to anyone else. No one gets to tell you whether it's right or wrong for you to come out. Maybe I love marching down Christopher Street every June with the Bisexual Women's Liberation group, but that doesn't mean you have to announce who you are to the world. I just wish your mother would show you that she loves you no matter who you are."

"It's never going to happen. She's the most judgmental bitch in the world. Until I marry a man and have some grandchildren for her, I'll never be enough."

"You're enough for me, Santana." Brittany leans over and kisses her forehead. "You're always enough for me."

"Will you lay with me awhile? I've been lonely in bed."

"Of course." Brittany kicks off her shoes and crawls close to Santana, trying not to jostle her stomach.

"Were you practicing?"

"I was. I really need to nail this tomorrow and I don't have much time."

"I'm I keeping you from it?"

"No, if I keep practicing the same steps I'm going to go insane. Just…imagine I get back on the Broadway stage?"

"I'll be there for your opening night and then I'll take you home and show you how proud I am of you."

"Obviously only if your stomach is healed."

"That's fair. Hopefully you'll start so soon that it won't be."

"I'm totally trying really hard not to get my hopes up."

"I know. As much as I want you to have your dreams, you know I'm the practical one."

"I definitely know that. I'm going to try and balance how I feel."

"That's probably the best idea." Santana reaches for her water and ends up crying out in pain.

"I hate that you're in so much pain." Brittany frowns. "Is it really bad?"

"It doesn't feel any better. I feel like my stomach is outside of my body and someone is taking a razor blade to it."

"Are you sure that's normal? I'm no doctor, but that sounds bad."

"He told me the recovery was rough. I just thought I'd be better than that and be back to work fast."

"You're not going when you're like this, right?"

"I can't. It hurts so badly that I wouldn't even be able to focus on my numbers. I just…it's hard, Brittany. I'm a woman, I'm Hispanic, I've already started out a hundred steps behind and just when I feel like I'm starting to catch up, you know, with this promotion and everything, now I'm knocked on my ass and it's like I need to get back up and prove that I'm tough."

"Doesn't your work prove it though?"

"You know better than anything that being successful has nothing to do with being the best. I know that I'm going to go back to work and hear the _oh, how are you doing_? and it's all just code for them not thinking I could hack it. The whole idea of it is enough to give me another ulcer."

"Do you really love your job so much that it's worth this?"

"I love my job more than anything but you. I just want to prove that I'm the best."

"I feel like you prove that all the time."

"I don't know." Santana runs her hand through her hair. "I work long crazy hours and think I run a tight ship, but there's always more I can be doing."

"And what about you? What do you do for _you?_ "

"I come home to you every night. You're my sanity."

"What if I'm not here? What if I get this part and I'm working six nights a week?"

"I'll still feel you crawl into bed with me and I'll know you're here."

"You really won't be upset if I'm gone every night?"

"Brittany, I want you to be successful more than anyone in the world. Of course I'll miss you at night, but I'll be so thrilled that you get to live your dream again."

"You're so much better than anyone else I've ever known." Brittany strokes Santana's hair and looked into her eyes. "You look so tired."

"All I feel is tired the past few days."

"Then go back to sleep. I'll stay with you."

Santana is pretty much just in and out of sleep for the next twenty-four hours. She manages to wake up and wish Brittany luck on her second audition but then she falls back to sleep. When she wakes up the next time, Brittany is in bed beside her and she's crying. Santana is able to sit up and she puts her hands between Brittany's shoulder blades, wanting to soothe her. She hates seeing her shiny happy girlfriend so distraught and she hates that she is in too much pain to gather her up in her arms.

"Baby, what's wrong?"

"I really thought I was gonna get it this time." Brittany sniffled. "I nailed every single move and still…"

"Maybe they'll call you…" Santana tries.

"They won't. They already told me I didn't get it. I think I should just give up for good. Why am I even bothering with this when it's clear I ruined my career?"

"Because you love it, Britt. It's everything you want."

"Well maybe I can't want it anymore. When I first started out, I didn't get parts all the time but it didn't suck this bad. Now it's like…I know it's not my dancing that's keeping me away. I should just focus on teaching and forget that this is what I really wanted to be doing."

"Brittany…"

"You know that I'm right, Santana. It's like, totally beyond my control. I'm not willing to sleep with people for parts and Rachel Berry got me blacklisted. I quit show business."

"I'm here for whatever you want to do, but I want you to know that I still believe in you."

"Of course you do, you love me. If only you were a casting director, then I'd have a shot."

"Lay next to me." Santana instructs, patting her shoulder so Brittany could at least get close. "I'd give you the world if I could. I'd invest in a show so you could have the principal dance role if I thought you'd let me. I just hate to see you sad."

"I feel like I'm saying goodbye to part of who I am. I gave it up once but the itch was too strong. Now the second time it's just like…final."

"That's really what you want to do?"

"I feel like it's too heartbreaking. I have a really good job, I have a girlfriend that I love, maybe show business just isn't for me anymore."

"I support you whatever you decide to do. If you want to go on a hundred auditions, I'd be cheering for you every time. If you never want to go on an audition again, I get it."

"I just wish I made enough money to make a real contribution to this house." Brittany sighs.

"The last thing I want is your money. I want you to feel like you're free to do whatever it is you'd like to do. I make more than enough money to support our lifestyle."

"That doesn't make me feel less like contributing. You know that."

"I do." Santana nods. "But I wish you'd understand that being able to take care of you financially finally gives me a purpose for my money. When I lived in this big house alone it felt like it was all for nothing. Now I have a purpose."

"You always have to sound so totally romantic when you talk about money."

"I spend all day not making money sound romantic at all."

"You should go to sleep. I know you're tired."

"I am, but we can still talk if you need to."

"No, I'm going to go for a ride on my bike and then see what Millie's making for dinner. Do you want me to wake you up when I'm going to eat?"

"I probably won't be hungry, but I could try to get out of bed and sit with you."

"Okay, cool."

It takes Santana a little while to fall back to sleep. Her mind is overwhelmed thinking about Brittany and her dreams and she doesn't know how to help her. As a pragmatist, Santana never had to worry about her own dreams but falling in love with a dreamer has made her more aware of the fact that people live and die by their dreams. And the worst part is, Brittany is talented enough that all her dreams should be coming true but instead she's teaching dance aerobics classes and lusting after the stage. Santana wants to give Brittany everything, but try as she might, this just isn't something she can give.

When she wakes up again, the sun is going down. She struggles to get out of bed, but she forces herself to, knowing that the gas in her shoulder will go away if she just walks. She gets out to the kitchen and Brittany is standing at the oven, presumably reheating whatever casserole Millie made for them during the day. Santana knows that she has to remember to give Millie a bonus this month for all of her help and she sinks down into one of the chairs, feeling exhausted just from her walk from the bedroom. The pills are a lot on her body but she needs them to keep the pain away and she sighs heavily.

"Okay, babe?" Brittany asks, looking in the oven.

"Trying to be. I think maybe I'll be able to watch TV with you tonight if you don't mind me falling asleep on the couch."

"You always fall asleep on the couch anyway." She laughs. "I'm just super glad to see you out of bed."

"I'm trying. I feel like garbage though. This is gross but I have awful gas pains in my shoulder."

"Lemme massage it for you. Maybe I can work some of it out."

"I just…don't want to pass gas in front of you."

"Santana, if you fart, you fart. I've had my face in your vagina, I'm not really disturbed by your body."

"Britt." Santana rolls her eyes. "Can we keep some mystery alive?"

"Probably not." Brittany comes up behind her and starts massaging her shoulders. "You had surgery, the time for mystery is over."

"Ugh, I wish this didn't feel so good."

"Obviously I give the best massages."

"I don't have any basis for comparison, but I think even if I did I would agree."

"I can feel the gas bubbles breaking up."

"I can't believe we're having a conversation about gas bubbles." Santana groans. "You're never going to want to have sex with me again. This is it, this is how the lesbian bed death starts."

"If you think we're ever going to have lesbian bed death, you're seriously mistaken. Also, I think that's a myth invented by heteros to totally discount the female sex drive. Once you're healed from surgery, you just wait."

"It amazes me that you're attracted to me while I'm wearing mesh underwear and you're popping my gas bubbles."

"Babe, I'm always attracted to you. Now let me be your sexy nursemaid and feed you dinner."

"If you just get it on table, I think I can feed myself." Santana laughs, glad Brittany is smiling after her rough day.

"You've seen me waitress, this might not be totally successful."

"Just please don't drop hot casserole on my stomach wounds. That's all I ask."

"I'll use two hands, promise."

They eat a quiet dinner together and then Brittany cleans up the dishes. Santana hobbles into the living room and turns the TV on. It's still the evening news and she watches it until Brittany comes in scowling about Reagan. They lower the volume until _Charles In Charge_ starts and then Santana lays her head in Brittany's lap, putting her feet up on the other side of the couch. She's not exactly comfortable but they don't have a TV in the bedroom and what she really wants it's to spend time with her girlfriend.

"I wonder if Carl is ever going to let me teach real dance classes. As much as I have fun with the seniors it's just…not what I want to be doing."

"I'm sure he will." Santana affirms. "It's just going to take some time. When I was a teller I thought I'd be stuck there forever. I did everything right and I still had to wait."

"Waiting sucks big." Brittany complains, running her fingers through Santana's hair. "Damnit I want to dance."

"Britt."

"I'm sorry, you just had surgery and I'm over here whining."

"No, you can whine. I know how much you love to dance and I hate that you're not doing it. Are there like…advanced dance classes you could take?"

"I mean yeah, they're just a lot of money."

"Let me pay for them…like an early Christmas gift."

"Does that mean you'll let this be the only gift and not buy anything else?"

"Probably not…" Santana trailed off, catching Brittany's pointed look. "I know you won't just let me pay for them because you're my girlfriend and I love you, so I need a reason."

"You know I hate that."

"Just let me spoil you a little. You took time off of work to take care of me while I'm recovering, and if I were paying a nurse, it would be a lot more money than your dance classes."

"You're not going to let up until I say yes, are you?"

"No, probably not. Britt, I want you to be happy. I know you're happiest when you're dancing, and not that jazzaerobics stuff."

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I really want to take the classes. I think it'll be good for me since I'm like, totally depressed about the fact that I didn't get another part."

"You'll obviously be the best one in the class."

"I don't know, those things get really competitive."

"Just like you love." Santana laughed then clutched her stomach. "Ugh that hurts."

"I hate that you're in this much pain."

"There's a six inch incision on my stomach, I guess it's normal. I just really need it to heal. I don't know what kind of mess Hudson and Adams will make while I'm gone. I have half a mind to call Hummel and have him spy for me. But it would probably make things worse for him there."

"It sounds to me like they use any excuse to bully him. Spying for the boss is like open season."

"I just wish Terri wasn't totally useless. Don't most people have their assistants for that kind of thing?"

"I have no idea. My job doesn't exactly have assistants. And I really don't think you're supposed to be worrying about work. The stress is so bad for you."

"I feel like we're going to grow old with you telling me that."

"Maybe you'll stop doing it and we won't have to grow old with me saying it."

"Babe, that's probably never going to happen."


	23. The Road Is Long, There Are Mountains In

It's hard for Brittany to go back to work both with the stupid fact that she didn't get another part and with Santana still recovering from her surgery at home. Really, she wants to play sexy nursemaid for her girlfriend even though Santana would probably say how things weren't sterile or something, and she wants to cuddle up in bed with her all day and pretend that the world outside doesn't exist. But she doesn't have a choice, she has to go back to jazz aerobics and pretending everything doesn't suck because if she doesn't show up for her shift Carl will fire her and she'll have to go back to being a really bad waitress.

The first day she works, she's really sullen the whole time. She tries to get her energy up but she just can't shake the thought that she's bigger than this job. Maybe if she were actually teaching real dance classes she would feel like she was doing something worthwhile, but doing exercises with women twice her age doesn't exactly feel like her calling. She knows that she needs to talk to Carl, to ask him when she's going to get a real dancing job, but her confidence is so low from falling to get another Broadway role that she just doesn't have the strength to do it.

When Brittany gets home from work, she takes off her shoes and goes into the house. She's shocked to see Santana fully dressed and her mother sitting on the couch beside her. She sucks in as much air as she can, knowing this is going to be a rough ride, and she paints a smile on her face.

"Hello Mrs. Lopez."

"Oh, hello Bethany."

"Mom, it's Brittany." Santana corrects her, grinding her teeth.

"Brittany, right. I understand you've been taking care of Santana, but you're excused for the afternoon. I've made certain to take care of her today."

"She can stay."

"Don't be ridiculous, Santana. Surely you can have a break from your friend to spend time with your mother."

"I'll, uh, be in the bedroom if anyone needs me."

Though Brittany doesn't want to go, she does in order to avoid setting off Santana's mother. She walks into the guest room and sort of just looks around. None of her things are in there so she has to settle for sitting down on the bed and staring at the wall. There's no reason that Santana has to be up and dressed except to appease that vile woman and Brittany seethes about it. The last thing her girlfriend needs in her life right now is stress and yet the human embodiment of about seventy-five percent of all of her stress is sitting in the living room allegedly taking care of her.

She stews in the bedroom until she can't possibly do it anymore. Coming out of the room, Santana looks exhausted sitting on the couch talking to her mother and Brittany wants to scream for the woman to leave. She obviously makes Santana super uncomfortable and Brittany hates that she has absolutely no power. Santana gives her a look as if to say that there's nothing either of them can do and Brittany tries to stifle her audible sigh.

"I'm going out on my bike. I'll be back a little later."

On her way out, Brittany is sure she hears Mrs. Lopez mutter something about how she can afford a motorcycle but not an apartment and it takes everything in her not to turn around and tell the woman off. But for Santana's sake, she doesn't. She uncovers her bike and rides until she doesn't want to scream anymore. She doesn't expect Mrs. Lopez to be gone when she gets back but luckily, she is. Santana lays slumped on the couch, still wearing regular clothes, and Brittany immediately goes to her side.

"Babe, you should get back in your pajamas."

"She said it would be better if I got dressed and I swear it took less energy to just put on these damn clothes than to argue with her."

"Well now she's gone and you should get comfortable again."

"Yeah." Santana sighed. "Yeah, I know."

"Was she that horrible today?" Brittany sat down beside Santana and stroked her hair.

"She spent an hour talking about how I should kick you out. It's unseemly, don't you know. It's bad enough I'm single, I don't need to be giving anyone the wrong ideas about me."

"Because anyone on this block cares enough to pay attention to your business."

"I think if I actually told her that I was a lesbian she'd keel over and die."

"Maybe you should." Brittany covered her mouth after she said the words then shook her head apologetically. "I'm sorry, that's your mother."

"No it's…fine. Today was just a lot."

"What can I do?"

"I don't even know, Britt. I'm just so existentially exhausted."

"How about I make you macaroni and cheese? Get this, from a box."

"Britt." Santana manages to smile. "I'd love that."

Brittany goes into the kitchen and tries to make as little mess as possible while she's cooking. She knows a big mess will just stress Santana out even more so she's careful to put everything back and wipe all of the cheesy powder off the counter. When she's done, she goes back into the living room with two bowls and Santana has changed back into pajamas and obviously taken one of her painkillers. Her eyes are only half open and Brittany sits gingerly on the couch. Santana opens her eyes fully and sits up a little, holding her hands out for the bowl.

"I know that Millie made us a ton of casseroles, but this is the best dinner I could ask for."

"Stick to your ribs comfort food." Brittany grins.

"I didn't even ask how your day was."

"It was fine, you know, same old same old. I'm going to talk to Carl about teaching real classes, I just need to work up the courage."

"Babe, you have all of the skills necessary."

"No, I know. It's just like, I guess I'm feeling kind of shitty about myself."

"Ugh. I hate that this snobby Broadway people have you feeling this way. You should have all the confidence in the world, you're amazing."

"Sometimes I feel like you're the only one who thinks like that."

"Seriously, if I had enough money, I'd buy you a show so you could show the world all of your amazing talent. I think everyone needs to see it."

"You're just saying that because you love me."

"I'd say it even if I didn't love you because I can recognize real talent. You have it, Britt, and I think you should march into Carl's office and tell him you need to do more than just teach seniors dance aerobics."

"You don't even know how badly I want a real class."

"I think I know to some extent. I mean, I live with you and I see how hard you work. Talk to him. He hired you with the intention of you doing this eventually and you've been at it a few months. Even if it's just one class, it'll make you feel like you have some purpose."

"I should be glad I have a job that's not waiting tables…"

"No, you deserve more than you have." Santana shakes her head. "I believe in you."

"How can I not do it when you say things like that?"

"You obviously can't. But I mean every word."

"Are you sure you're okay tonight? I know it's a lot when your mom is around and you really don't need any extra stress with your stomach."

"I feel really good now that I've taken my pills and am having dinner. But I want to go to bed really soon. I'm so knocked out, I just can't wait until I start feeling normal again."

"You seem better today than yesterday."

"I looked at the incision this morning. I have no idea how this is ever going to heal."

"Totally magic." Brittany leaned over and tucked a strand of hair behind Santana's ear. "Another week and you're going to be fighting with me about going back to work."

"I hate being gone. I just know that Hudson is doing something to screw everything up."

"They have someone in there to watch over it. You've gotta stop stressing."

"I'm a human ball of stress, Brittany. That's just who I am." Santana snapped.

"Hey, I don't want to fight with you. I'm just saying that your stress out you in the hospital. It's bad enough you had stomach surgery, I don't want you to end up having a heart attack."

"I just…don't know how to calm down."

"You're calm when you're with me, most of the time. Just think about me massaging your shoulders and kissing the back of your neck. Imagine that you're home and you just had a cigar and a whiskey and you're crawling into bed with me. When the day gets hard, just for a second imagine that you're not there."

"I'll try." Santana agreed, leaning into Brittany's touch. "I promise I will."

"I want a long life with you. I need you to do that."

Santana ends up going to bed and Brittany watches TV by herself in the living room. She just wants Santana to be better again so she isn't so worn down. She hates seeing her girlfriend weak like this, especially because she's normally so vibrant. When Brittany finally goes to bed, she strokes Santana's hair and falls asleep with her in a loose grasp, not wanting to hurt her.

The next morning when Brittany gets up for work, Santana is still sound asleep so she kisses her goodbye and steels herself to talk to Carl. She knows that it might not go well, but after talking to Santana, she feels that she has no choice but to do it. Before her jazz aerobics class starts, she knocks on his door and he summons her in.

"Uh, hey Carl…I kind of wanted to talk to you."

"Well I assumed that's why you were in here. Shoot."

"Look, I, uh, know I haven't been here too long, but I feel like I'm ready for a real class. You know, something that isn't ninety percent over the age of sixty five."

"You don't like jazz aerobics?"

"No, I—um—totally love jazz aerobics." Brittany stammers. "But I was a Broadway dancer. I feel like I have more to offer this studio."

"So what do you want to teach?"

"I don't know, regular jazz? I was trained in ballet too…just something else."

"Look, Brittany, you're really good and I like you here, but I just don't have anything else to offer right now. I promised you I'd get you something in a year and I can try for sooner but I just can't guarantee it."

"Yeah, okay." Brittany looks down, dejected. "I get it."

"If there was something I could do, I'd do it."

"I know."

Brittany tries to get her pep up for class but she still feels kind of shitty. Maybe she should have known when she ran to New York chasing a dream that she'd be unsuccessful, but the first few years were so good that she'd gotten a false sense of hope. At least she has Santana though, so she doesn't have to feel like a complete failure and she kept telling herself that as she went through her two classes. On the way out, she avoids Carl, not wanting his sympathetic looks, and she rides her bike home breathing in the cool breeze as she zips through the city streets.

Santana is laying on the couch when she gets home, half asleep, and Brittany kind of hates how her pain pills effect her. The whole world just feels really off balance and she sits down beside her, dropping her head against the back of the couch. She just wants everything to go back to normal again. She wants to find fulfillment in her job, she wants her girlfriend to not be sick, she wants to do something fun with her friends who always seem too busy. Something is off with the universe, she thinks, and she sighs heavily, rousing Santana from her half-conscious state.

"I didn't even feel you sit down." She mumbles, running her hand through tangled dark hair. "Is it already late enough for you to be home?"

"Yeah, you know, there's only room for so much shitty jazz aerobics in one day."

"Britt."

"Look, it's fine. I talked to Carl and there's pretty much no shot of me getting anything else until I'm there a year. I just want to like…do something."

"Why don't you go out with your friends tonight?"

"I'm not gonna leave you. What kind of shit girlfriend would I be if I did that?"

"The kind who's rightfully tired of watching me sleep."

"Are you sure?" Brittany bites her lip.

"I'm sure. Go dance, get drunk, just come home to me."

"I always do."

Santana falls back to sleep on the couch and Brittany calls over to her hold apartment. Mike answers the phone and she tells him that she needs to go dancing. Her promises to round everyone up and she goes into the bedroom to get dress. It's early for them to be going out, but truth be told, Brittany doesn't want to get home too late. She's still a little unsettled by the idea of leaving Santana alone, but when she kisses her goodbye, she makes her promise to have a good time.

"Look who finally made it out." Artie whoops when she walks into Holly's bar. He immediately handed her a shot of tequila and she downed it before approaching the bar to order another drink.

"Vodka tonic on the house for Brittany!" Holly calls from behind the bar. "Long time no see! Where's sweet cheeks tonight?"

"Recovering from surgery!" Brittany yells over the music. "But I had a shit day at work, so she wanted me to go out."

"You better have a good time then!"

"Come on, Brittany, come dance." Tina whines, grabbing her hands. "Lauren totally ditched me tonight."

"What's the deal? Are you and Lauren like a thing now?" Brittany raises her eyebrows and Tina flushes.

"We're not a thing, gross. We're just hanging out."

"Just hanging out with your best friend, sound like a big fat lesbian thing."

"Shut up." Tina laughs, dancing. "I don't make fun of you about Santana."

"Oh, please, you all made fun of me about Santana. Now you don't make fun of me because it's old news."

"What's the real? Are you still happy?"

"I'm way happy. Wish she wasn't sick and wish my job wasn't shit, but I'm happy with her."

"You gonna take her home to meet your parents?"

"You sound like my mother." Brittany rolls her eyes. "At least they don't live on a commune anymore, it'll be easier to take her home to a house."

"Your parents are so cool."

"My parents are so nuts. Santana is gonna think they're crazy."

"Santana's crazy about you, when you take her home it'll be fine."

"I don't know…it's complicated with Santana's parents. I don't want her to think I'm like, rubbing it in her face that my parents are weird hippies who don't care if I sleep with girls."

"Please." Tina rolls her eyes, letting Artie roll in to dance with them. "She's in love with you, she'll be happy that they want you to be happy."

"What are we talking about?" Artie yells, popping a wheelie in her chair.

"Taking Santana to meet my parents and whether or not it'll be a disaster."

"Meeting the parents is always a disaster, that's the point."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wheels." Brittany rolls her eyes. "Where's Mike?"

"Getting us all drinks, you're empty."

"I don't want to come in too drunk."

"Girl, if you're out with us, you need to be drunk. Santana's high anyway."

"You know if Mike was recovering from surgery, you'd do the same thing." Brittany shakes her head. "I'm fine! I just want to dance!"

Brittany dances her ass off for hours and when things start to wind down at the bar, she's only a little drunk. Because she knows Santana hates her taking the subway late at night, she gets a cab home and waved goodbye to her friends who are walking home. It felt good to get out and just dance and hang out with her friends and from the cab window, she watches the city whir by.

She's surprised that the lights are on when she gets home and she's even more surprised when she sees Santana up walking around. It's nearly two am and she figured that she'd be long asleep. But she looks pained and Brittany immediately goes to her side, forgetting how much she wanted to shower and get into bed.

"It's just a pain, the doctor said this was normal. I'm trying to walk it off."

"You could have called Holly's, I would have come home."

"I didn't want you to." Santana shakes her head. "I wanted you to get a break from all the misery. Sometimes I feel like everything is too serious here and you used to always have fun."

"Do you really think I care that I used to always have fun when the tradeoff is having you? You're like, totally the best thing that's ever happened to me and I don't like that you think I'd rather be in some stupid bar than being with you, especially when you feel like crap."

"It's just the stomach surgery, my family, my job…I feel like I'm weighing on your free spirit."

"My free spirit is free to choose where it wants to be and it chooses you every time. Of course I love to go out and dance, but I like it a lot better when you're with me."

"I don't know, Brittany."

"I do. I know it's been a really shitty few days, but things are going to go back to normal soon."

"I still feel like you sacrifice a lot to be with me."

"Psht, yeah, I'm living with the woman I love in her fancy townhouse, sure feels like I've sacrificed a lot." Brittany rolls her eyes.

"Sometimes I think you deserve to be with someone who isn't a coward."

"Is this about your mother?"

"No…yes…I don't know." Santana clutches her stomach and leans over the counter.

"For the record, I don't think you're a coward. I think you're practical. I sort of want to throw your parents off a building, but they're your parents and you have to do what makes you feel comfortable."

"I wish they ever cared what made me happy. Barnard made me happy, they flipped, you make me happy, my mother hates the fact that you're living with me and she doesn't even know you're my girlfriend. I just feel like garbage tonight." Santana starts crying and Brittany stops in her tracks.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

"No. I just…I don't know what I want."

Brittany wraps her arms gently around Santana and lets her cry into the crook of her neck. She wishes she could squeeze her tightly but she's afraid of irritating her incision so she tries to keep her distance between their bodies. Still though, she kisses the top of Santana's head and tries to soothe her as best as she can, worried that she's in pain, worried that she's so sad.

"I don't want to go anywhere." Brittany whispers. "Just so you know, you're my best thing."

"Will you help me get into bed and get my pills? I just want to sleep for awhile."

"Yeah, totally, but if you're still feeling this bad in the morning I think you should call the doctor."

"Uh huh." Santana nods. "I will."

Brittany helps Santana get into bed, refills her glass of water and gets her the bottle of pills from the bathroom. Then she climbs in next to her, even though she's still in her clothes from the bar, she smells a little smoky and she desperately wants to shower. She figures she can do that after Santana is asleep, but she wants to hold her when she's in a vulnerable place. Santana lays her head on Brittany's chest and Brittany combs her hair through Santana's hair, careful not to snag her curls.

"I want you to meet my family." Brittany murmurs, not sure if Santana is awake or asleep.

"What?" Santana's eyes pop open and Brittany instantly regrets saying it when she was on the verge of sleep.

"I want you to feel what it feels like to be loved by them. And I love you so much that I just want to share my life with you. I know your mom hates me or whatever, but at least I met her. I want you to come to Arizona with me and meet my super weird family."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean I get if you don't want to."

"I do. But do you mind if we talk about it in the morning?"

"No, totally, go to sleep."

Once Santana is sound asleep, Brittany slips out and takes her shower. She's not long because she's tired and she gets back in bed, moving Santana's head to her chest again. She thinks of how glad she is that she didn't come home drunk, that she was able to help Santana relax a little and that she actually asked her to meet her family. Brittany falls asleep thinking good things, so when she wakes up in the morning to the sound of Santana crying, she's startled.

"It hurts so much." She sobs, crouching over the bed. "It hurts worse than when I first got it."

"Santana, you need to call the doctor. This isn't okay."

"Okay, okay."

Brittany doesn't hesitate to help Santana get to the phone. Even though it's early, she gets the doctor's call service and they tell her to go to the emergency room. Brittany helps her get dressed and then she gets her in a cab, holding her hand in the back even though in ordinary situations Santana would shy away from it. They get to the hospital and Brittany hates that she can't go in with her. Instead, she sits in the waiting room for hours sipping coffee out of a paper cup. When Santana finally comes back out, she looks incredibly pale and Brittany stands immediately to go to her side.

"I have an infection. All they could do was give me antibiotics."

"Santana, you look so out of it. They did the first dose intravenously and gave me some more pain killers. I…feel like I could collapse on my feet."

"Fuck." Brittany says, because she's not sure what else there is to say. "I'll get you home and go pick up your prescription at the pharmacy."

"You're really good to me."

"I love you." Brittany whispers, making sure no one else hears her.

"You have work today."

"I called Carl. I don't even care about work."

"You need to care about work."

"There's nothing you could say to me to make me care about work more than I care about you."

"I…don't know."

"Let's just get you home."

After bringing Santana home, Brittany goes out and gets her prescription for antibiotics. Millie is already there cleaning the house and making some kind of casserole and Brittany just wants to fall into her arms and cry. Luckily, Santana is asleep and not crying in pain but Brittany is so mad that she has to deal with infection on top of recovering from surgery.

"You've got quite the sour puss." Millie says to her when she comes out with the vacuum.

"I just don't like seeing her sick."

"I know how you feel. My Marley had the flu last week and I could scarcely leave her be."

"But you left her to come here."

"I had no choice but to pay the bills."

"I'm sure Santana would have paid you anyway."

"I know she would have. But then I'd leave her high and dry. I know she counts on clean sheets and an organized house, she can't function without it and half the time I see her like my own daughter."

"You make it easier on her." Brittany sighs. "Her mother is so terrible."

"I got a sight of her the other day. She makes that poor girl feel so bad all the time. I don't know how she can call herself a mother. If she was younger, I'd take her in like I did Unique."

"I just wish it wasn't so hard. She's tired of fighting."

"I'm sure of it. Why don't you sit down and relax? I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Millie, you know I feel bad when you do things for me. It's bad enough you wash my underwear."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't argue with me."

Brittany doesn't. She sits down on the couch and drinks the tea that Millie made for her. Millie leaves not long after that and Brittany goes into the bedroom to lay down for a nap next to Santana. She leaves the prescription and a glass of water on the nightstand for her and when she wakes up a few hours later, Santana is awake. She looks less pained than she had earlier and Brittany smiles at her.

"Sleepy head." Santana brushes hair off of her face.

"You know me. I could nap all day."

"It's cute."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm…mediocre. I just have to wait for these antibiotics to run their course." She shrugs. "More time before I can go back to work."

"Your body needs this."

"My body isn't cut out for being still. I feel like I'm going to get bedsores."

"We could go for a walk if you're feeling up to it. I know you're supposed to be taking it easy, but a walk around the block can't hurt, can it?"

"I guess not. I need to get out of this bed. I really feel like I'm becoming one with it." Santana laughs a little. "I could also go for some ice cream. These painkillers make me so hungry."

"I'd love to buy you some ice cream, babe."

"You might have to help me get dressed though. It's becoming harder to lift up my arms."

Brittany is so gentle as she helps Santana get into loose shorts and a tank top. She knows that she's in agony so she's extra careful not to put any pressure on her stomach. Brittany is at least glad that they're going to leave the house and while Brittany locks up, Santana puts her weight on the railing of the steps. Sometimes Brittany knows that Santana wants to hold her hand and she hates that they can't as they walk around the block toward the ice cream shop. Already exhausted when they get there, Santana sinks into a chair and Brittany goes up to order two sundaes.

"You alright?" She asks when she comes back over holding the ice cream.

"Yeah, just a little nauseous. I think the ice cream will help." Santana picks up the spoon and takes a small bite.

"This surgery is dumb. I hope you never have to have one again. I suck at being a nurse, I just feel sad when I see you like this."

"You've been a really good nurse. Much better than my mother, that's for sure."

"I totally don't think that's saying much." Brittany laughs a little. "But I'm trying my best."

"It just like…" Tears well in Santana's eyes and she brushes them away quickly. "It's times like this when I remember how lucky I am. I really thought I'd always be alone. I probably would have been paying Millie to stay around the clock with me. But instead, I have you."

"You never would have been alone, Santana. If we didn't find each other, you would have found someone else to be happy with."

"I really don't believe that. You're one of a kind. You broke through all my crap and you love me, even when I can be insufferable sometimes."

"Thing is, I never find you insufferable."

"Well that's some kind of miracle."

"You're a special kind of special." Brittany murmurs, making sure she's speaking quietly enough that no one else hears them. "And I'm glad I'm around to take care of you."

"You don't even know what it means to me. I know it sounds really stupid but surgery sucks less when you're not alone."

"You're never going to have to be alone again."

"I know that and it just means everything to me."


	24. What a Feeling (I Can Really Have It All

Once Santana finally heals from her surgery and the subsequent infection, she goes back to work. She tries not to overdo it, but she can't help but stay late every night for the first two weeks, just trying to catch up on paperwork and take care of her clients. Things weren't done her way while she was gone and everything about it makes her crazy to the point where she has Terri hold her calls just so she can deal with reorganizing everything.

Because she has a three day weekend coming up, Santana murmurs to Brittany that maybe they can make that trip to Arizona that she wants to. Brittany squeals with delight and immediately cells her parents, telling them that they were coming. Santana loves making Brittany happy, but the truth is, she's beyond nervous about the trip, she's beyond nervous about meeting Brittany's parents and she just isn't sure how someone like her is going to make a good impression on someone like them.

"I don't think you need to pack suit jackets." Brittany tells Santana when she comes in the room and finds her piling clothes up on the bed. "They totally don't do anything fancy."

"They're going to hate me." Santana sighs.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because they don't even put their money in a bank and I iam/i the bank. I have no idea how to make a good impression on them because everything I would normally do to try to make an impression on someone is the opposite of what would impress them."

"You don't have to try to impress them. They're going to love you because I've only told them like a billion times how happy you make me. Just be yourself."

"I don't know, Brittany. I've never met anyone's parents before…"

"There's a lot of things you didn't do before me." Brittany shrugs. "But I really promise you have nothing to worry about."

"Is there a hotel close in case they throw me out?"

"Hey." Brittany steps toward Santana and takes both of her hands, swinging them between their bodies. "If you're really this freaked, we can totally cancel."

"But you're so excited."

"Yeah, and? If it's going to give you another stupid ulcer I'm not going to force this on you."

"No." Santana shakes her head. "We're going. I'll get over being like this on the way there, I want to meet your family."

Santana is glad that Brittany helps her pack, hanging back up the suit jackets and skirts in favor of her casual summer clothes that she hardly ever wears. She's still a little beside herself with worry, but she tries to keep telling herself about what Brittany said about getting another ulcer and calm herself down. They're taking a late flight Friday night, so Santana goes to work and attempts to not snap at everyone in stress, but is largely unsuccessful, especially when Hudson miscounts a massive deposit. When she finally gets out, she meets Brittany back at the house and drags her small suitcase out to the curb so she can hail a cab. Brittany insists to the driver that she'll get everything in the trunk and Santana just smiles a little as she does.

For the whole ride to the airport and then the whole flight, Santana's knee jiggles. She knows that Brittany feels bad that she can't calm her down but there's a guy sitting right next to them and all it does is make Santana more anxious. Brittany's family loves her, Brittany's family knows about them, she just really wants to not look like an asshole when she gets there and considering she's been beaten down and made to feel like crap for a lot of things throughout her life, it's hard to feel like she can possibly make a good first impression.

"Brittany!" A blonde woman screams, standing at the gate when they get off their flight.

"Mom!" Brittany runs into her arms and hugs her tight. "Where's Dad?"

"In the bathroom, of course. And where's your—"

"Santana's right here." Brittany nudges her forward and she reaches out her hand to shake Brittany's mother's. Whitney shoves it away though and wraps Santana in a hug.

"It's real nice to meet you, Santana. Brittany's been talking and talking about you and we had to see you to believe that you really exist."

"Well thank you for having me, it certainly means a lot."

"So formal." Whitney rolls her eyes. "Just relax a little, we don't bite."

Brittany's father finally comes out of the bathroom and after more hugs are exchanged, they make their way out to Pierce Pierce's old Buick. When Brittany and Santana get in the backseat, Brittany goes to take Santana's hand but Santana hesitates a little, nervous. After a deliberation, she allows her hand to slip inside Brittany's and she holds it loosely, in case she feels like she has to pull it away.

"Damn Reagan." Whitney spits at the news on the radio. "Brittany, you're registered to vote, right?"

"Yeah, Mom, super pumped about Mondale."

Santana doesn't mention her politics and she hopes that Brittany doesn't either. She just sits quietly looking out the window at the Arizona landscape in the dark. She's surprised when the pull up to a suburban house, even though she knows that the Pierces have given up their commune days for suburbia, it's still hard to picture them there. She gets out of the car and gets the bags out of the trunk, telling Brittany she's got it under control, and then following Pierce inside. The house smells vaguely of marijuana but Santana doesn't comment. She just accepts the glass of Southern Comfort that Pierce hands to her and sits down beside Brittany on the floral couch.

"So a banker, huh?" Whitney asks and Santana feels as if she's under a microscope.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ma'am? Honey, nobody in the world is going to call me ma'am. I'm just Whitney, plain and simple."

"Okay…Whitney."

"Mom, Santana's family's really formal, cut her a little slack."

"I'm cutting her lots of slack, I just want her to feel like she's at home here and to stop looking so nervous around us."

"Babe, seriously though, you can relax." Brittany nudges her side. "They don't bite."

"I'm cool, I'm relaxed."

"You look about as relaxed as a mouse in a room full of cats." Pierce chuckles. "Maybe we should—"

"Dad, don't offer my girlfriend pot." Brittany shakes her head and Santana's jaw drops. "I think we should go up to bed, we had a long flight and Santana worked all day."

"Look what you did, Pierce." Whitney chides him. "I told you not to do that."

"Whitney, it's no big deal, really. We're just really tired, but we'll get to know each other tomorrow."

Santana gets up to Brittany's old room and she looks around at the posters and memorabilia that litters the room. It feels very much Brittany and she has to smile, sometimes forgetting how much younger her girlfriend is than she. While Brittany is in the bathroom, Santana changes into her pajamas and feels suddenly nervous about sharing a bed with Brittany in her parents' house. She knows they're not exactly conventional, but still, it feels strange and when Brittany comes out of the bathroom she finds Santana wringing her hands.

"What the matter, babe?" Brittany cocks her head to the side.

"Nothing, it's just like…we're going to sleep together?"

"Um, duh, we sleep together every night."

"Are you sure your parents wouldn't be more comfortable if I slept on the couch?"

"My parents would definitely not be. They're probably down there smoking right now anyway."

"They just…do that around you?"

"When I was a kid they didn't. But once I hit sixteen I guess the figured I was old enough to know what was up." Brittany shrugs. "I smoked a few times in high school, it just made me more spacey than normal, I don't get why they like it."

"I've never done it."

"Nothing about that confession surprises me. Come here, you're all scrunched up tonight, you just need to lay down with me and relax."

"I will, let me just brush and floss first."

Santana goes into the bathroom and she feels like she has to psych herself up for laying down with Brittany in her childhood bed. She knows that Brittany's parents know they live together, but the idea of being iout/i is just so foreign to her that it's hard to process. She finishes up in the bathroom and she goes back down the hall to Brittany's room where she's under the covers. Santana carefully closes and locks the door before she slips in beside her, fidgeting once she does.

"Are you really freaked out?" Brittany asks.

"A little, yeah. You're sure they're fine with us…and with me…?"

"I'm totally sure, they're all like, love is love, they've never had a problem with me being into girls."

"It's just so weird for me. I don't know how to process it."

"Just relax a little, you can be yourself this weekend, Santana." Brittany kisses the crown of her head. "You deserve that."

"I'm trying. I just don't know how to be myself outside of our house. The idea that your parents are okay with this is so foreign to me."

"Does it upset you?"

"No, I mean, I want the world for you. I just don't know how to be myself when I spend most of my life hiding it."

"Start with this." Brittany kisses Santana's lips. "We're alone, you can kiss me."

"I love kissing you."

"I know. And I like, never expect you to do it in front of my parents, but right now, it's just us."

"They're really welcoming."

"They know I'm happy with you. I've told them that a thousand times. They're…weird and they weren't exactly the most attentive parents when I was growing up, but they do actually care about me, in their own way."

"It's…strange to me that they weren't on top of you. That's the experience I had, it's the experience I still have."

"I guess I raised myself mostly, they do their thing, I don't know."

"You sound sad about that." Santana snuggles closer to Brittany, wrapping her arms around her waist.

"I'm…fine about it. I guess it's just not the idyllic family that you see it as, you know?"

"I didn't realize…"

"They love me, I'm grateful for that."

"You're still allowed to have other feelings, you know."

"I know." Brittany snuggles closer to Santana. "They're the best parents they know how to be. I mean, my dad totally was cool with raising me even though I'm not his biological kid and my mom…well, they moved to the suburbs and out of the commune, so that's saying something."

"It is." Santana nods. "But if there's ever anything—"

"I know." Brittany kisses her. "I'm good though."

The next morning, Santana wakes up before Brittany. She stays in bed though, uncomfortable with going downstairs without her. She's unsure what to make of Brittany's parents and she's just not ready to interact with them alone. So she closes her eyes and she listens to Brittany's heartbeat, waiting until she grumbles her morning noises and she wakes up. Santana smiles at her when she does and they go in the bathroom together to brush their teeth. As much as Santana has been worried, the Pierces aren't even up when they get downstairs and Brittany starts the coffee pot, pouring Santana a cup when she's ready.

"They'll sleep late. My dad is off the week and my mom makes jewelry so…she's on her own schedule."

"I really wish I got to meet your sister."

"Me too. But now that she's at Berkeley, she like, never comes home."

"That's impressive though, she must be really smart."

"She totally is. Once you meet her, you guys can totally talk about smart people stuff. I don't know when you want to come back…"

"Whenever you do, Brittany. I don't want to hold you back from seeing your family and I'd prefer not to spend holidays with mine."

"Maybe Christmas. We'll see what work looks like for you."

"I know, it's so hard for me to take time off now that I just took the time off for the surgery. But it's a holiday, so I should be able to."

"Even if we only come for a few days. I just like, don't want it to be too much on you. The last thing I need is you getting more ulcers because of me."

"If anything, my ulcers would be worse if I didn't have you around. You really just…I don't thank you enough."

"Quit being silly, you don't have to thank me."

"You just took care of me while I healed and you've brought me to meet your family. When I realized I was a lesbian, those are things I thought I'd never get to have." Santana blinks rapidly, trying to keep from getting too emotional. "But with you, I have almost everything."

"You know if I could give you the rest, I would."

"What I have is enough. _You_ are enough."

Before Brittany says anything in response, Whitney comes down the stairs and Santana stiffens up, nervous again. She thinks that being too formal is the thing that makes the Pierces most uncomfortable but she just can't help herself. Her parents raised her to be nervous around authority figures and even though she's in her thirties, the Pierces are her girlfriend's parents and all she can think to do is demonstrate her propriety.

"So what are you girls up to today?" Whitney asks, wrinkling her nose at the smell of coffee.

"I was going to ask to borrow your car, show Santana around and stuff, let her see where I grew up."

"Go ahead. I'm going to make a tofu stir fry for dinner so be home in time for that."

"I doubt we'll be gone all day." Brittany shrugs. "Unless there's something you want to do, babe?"

"I'm just here for you." Santana shakes her head. "The biggest thing I wanted to do was meet your family and I've already done that."

"You're cute."

"Brittany."

"What? My mom can totally see that you are too."

Though Santana had gotten dressed before she'd come downstairs, Brittany hadn't and she goes upstairs to change, leaving Santana in the kitchen with Whitney. She fidgets in her seat and wakes for Whitney to say something, nervous that she's going to answer a question wrong, nervous that she'll somehow embarrass Brittany to her family. It's hard being nervous all the time and she knows she shouldn't be, knows her health depends on it, but she honestly can't help herself.

"So you must really love her, huh?" Whitney finally speaks to her after several minute of uncomfortable silence.

"I do. I try to show it to her as best as I can."

"She tells me about it. I definitely wouldn't have pictured her ending up with someone like you, you know, rich, conservative, but since she loves you, I won't hold it against you."

"If it's any consolation, I never expected to end up with someone like her either. But it was almost like from the moment I saw her, I knew I was going to love her forever."

"That's cute." Whitney smiles a little. "At least something worked out for her in New York."

"Her career will work out too, I think, it'll just take some time."

When Brittany comes downstairs again, she's ready to go and Santana gets in the passenger seat of her mom's car. Brittany speeds down the block and Santana holds onto the handle above the door, totally nervous about being in the car with her though she's been on the motorcycle enough times to know that Brittany is actually a really safe driver.

"I don't really have anything I care enough to show you, I just figured your stomach might explode if you stayed in the house with my parents all day."

"Britt, we came here to visit them."

"Yeah, so? We've got time. I just figured I'd drive around town for awhile, let you get some of your nervous energy out."

"You're too good to me."

"To be honest, it's a lot for me to spend all day with them too. I'll drive by and show you my high school and stuff if you feel like it, maybe take you to the diner I used to go to so we can get like, burgers or something?"

"That sounds really good." Santana smiles, taking Brittany's hand on the gearshift. "Are you happy to be back?"

"It's nice to see my parents but New York is more my speed. I left nowheresville Arizona because I thought I'd make it big in the city. I guess I'm not totally there yet."

"You'll get there, I know it. Carl is going to promote you next year and then you'll be like, the greatest dance teacher New York has ever seen. When you get there, screw Rachel Berry, people will be offering you parts left and right."

"You really have faith in me, huh?"

"So much. I know you're the most talented person I've ever seen and I go to the theater enough to be able to judge."

"That means more to me than you even know. Even if I never make it big, knowing that you believe in me…"

"You always believe in me too, Britt. This is what a healthy relationship looks like, I guess. Is that your school?"

"Yup, that's where I went to high school. Feels like forever ago."

"You've made such a new life since then. I bet they wouldn't even recognize you."

"Definitely not, I mean, even my teased hair. My mom wouldn't let me cut it basically forever so I wore a long braid with flowers on it."

"Product of your flower child parents." Santana laughs. "I'm pretty sure my parents were calling your parents communists before you were ever born."

"And yet their daughters fell in love."

"Against all odds, huh?"

"Opposites attract." Santana brand, wishing she could just kiss Brittany. "You're certainly my opposite."

"And you love every second of it."

"Oh, how I do."

They drive around for a long while and then, after the burgers Brittany promised, they head back to the Pierces' house. Santana notices that Brittany's dad's car is back in the driveway and she swallows hard, nervous to be around both of her parents again. She takes a deep breath and she gets out of the car, trailing behind Brittany as they go to the front door. Whitney and Pierce are laughing on the couch when they come in and Santana gives them her warmest smile, trying to just fit in so outside of her element.

"Brittany." Pierce stands up. "You know my friend Frances is starting a new commune in upstate New York, all women."

"No thanks, Dad. I know you and mom were really into it, but it's totally not for me. Besides, Santana has a house and a really good job, we're not just going to ditch that."

"Are you sure? You know, we really loved living on the commune."

"I know, Dad. I spent the first four years of my life there. It's just not for me though."

"She's become so New York, hasn't she?" Whitney laments. "One that's so New York, one that's so San Francisco. The bastions of capitalist culture."

"Ma, seriously? You promised when I went to New York there would be no guilt trips."

"I know, I know. It's just—"

"It's just nothing." Brittany rolls her eyes. "I love the city, I love my girlfriend. That's it."

Santana feels really uncomfortable around Brittany's parents for the rest of the day. She thinks about what Brittany sort of said last night and then she considers the fact that maybe her parents aren't the only ones imprisoning her with their ideas. Brittany's parents are more accepting, sure, but they have this vision for Brittany that she doesn't necessarily fit into either and she feels a pang in her chest for her girlfriend who always keeps that inside.

They do things with the Pierces for the next two days, even letting them show Santana around the desert and stuff before their red eye flight on Monday night, but by the time they get to the airport, Santana is exhausted and she can tell Brittany was too. They gets on the plane and Brittany rests her head against the window, though Santana really wishes it could be her shoulder. She taps a little on Brittany's leggings clad thigh and Brittany smiles at her.

"Thank you for coming with me, I know that was hard for you."

"I just want to know every part of you, Britt. You've met my horrible family, it was time I met your parents."

"I didn't expect them to be so judgmental of you."

"They were perfectly nice to me. I mean, they didn't hate me because I'm a woman. I just happen to be a banker which isn't exactly their dream for you."

"Please, my sister wants to go to law school, they'll get over it."

"That's going to go over well." Santana laughs.

"That's what I'm saying. I think they actually really liked you though."

"I was so awkward around them."

"It was cute. I like that you're like…just adorable. Especially because it's only really when it comes to me. It makes me feel special."

"All my bitch powers melt away."

"Obviously they're neutralized by me and my awesome skills. Do you want to switch for the window? You have work earlier than me tomorrow…"

"No I'm good. I'll just be an ultra bitch when I get there, remind them that I'm not weak even after my surgery knocked me out for weeks."

"Your stomach feels okay after this, right? I don't want the stress giving you an ulcer."

"My stomach's good. I'm just going to close my eyes now…"

They sleep for the whole flight back to New York and Santana knows that she looks absolutely wrecked when she wakes up. Somehow, Brittany is glowing and chipper but they're got even out of the airport before Santana orders the largest cup of coffee she can get and immensely regrets the fact that she has to go to work. But she has no choice and when they get out of the cab at the house she goes upstairs to shower off the flight and get dressed and ready as quickly as possible.

Throughout the day, she just wishes she was home, realizing how much she'd missed having her own space, but she works on the accounts on her desk and she paces the floors to check on everything, heels clicking against tile to remind everyone that she's there and she's in charge. Hudson, Ben Israel and Schuester have been surprisingly well behaved since she's returned from her surgery but she doesn't dare speak it out loud lest the next day she finds Schuester flirting with Terri again and the other two harassing Hummel. All she wants to do is prove that she runs a tight ship and tired as she is, the day runs so smoothly that she actually feels like she does.

When the bank is finally closed, Santana doesn't stick around late. She gets a cab and has them drop her off at the Thai place around the corner from the house so she can pick up food and have it on the table when Brittany comes home. Once she's done plating it, she sits down for a minute, just letting her eyes drift close and she doesn't realize that she's fallen asleep in a kitchen chair until the sound of the front door jolts her awake.

"Babe, you home?" Brittany calls out.

"In the kitchen! I have dinner."

"Thank you, moon goddess." She walks in and sinks down across from Santana, but not before kissing her lips. "I'm hungry and I'm starving and remind me that I never want to take a red eye again."

"Today was rough. This week is going to be rough."

"How about we spend the whole weekend in our pajamas?" Brittany suggests and Santana knows she doesn't suggest naked because they still haven't been intimate since her surgery.

"That sounds really good. I might have to—"

"Work in your office?"

"Just a little, I promise. But will it make you feel better if I do it in my pajamas?"

"If you let me pick out the movies we're going to watch."

"I think I can make that compromise. Britt?"

"Uh huh."

"As tired as I feel, it was worth it going to Arizona."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, absolutely."

They eat dinner quietly and Santana cleans up after they're done. She knows she should get an early start in the morning so she goes into her bathroom and washes up and brushes her teeth before changing into her pajamas. Brittany is sitting on the edge of the bed when she comes out of the bathroom and Santana smiles a little seeing her there. It still feels strange to her that there's this constant person who loves her and she steps in between her legs, resting her hands on her shoulders and kissing her lips.

"You taste minty and delicious." Brittany grins, wiping a bit of toothpaste from the corner of Santana's mouth. "And I'm glad you feel comfortable kissing me in the bedroom again."

"It made me nervous that your parents were going to walk in…"

"I know. I totally get it. But I'm still happy to have you like this."

"You know, it's been almost a year that we've been together."

"It's weird that we haven't been together forever. I mean, like seriously, I can barely even remember I time when I wasn't with you."

"It's been a good year. I know you hate when I spend money on you, but I really want to take you to a nice dinner and buy you something for our anniversary."

"I can't really trust you, you bought me a Cartier bracelet when we were together for like three months."

"Brittany, you give me so much emotionally that I don't know how to do. I was such a wreck meeting your family that I thought I was going to throw up and you just do things like that so casually. Giving you things is what I know how to do. I want you to have the big romantic thing, even though I can't be public about my love for you. I want to get a private little table in the back of a restaurant and toast the best day of my life. I want to buy you something that reminds you even when I'm a disaster I still love you more than anything. I want to come home and make love to you, however you want it, even if it involves some kind of toy."

"You really hate the toys, don't you?" Brittany smiles at her.

"I don't hate the toys." Santana shakes her head. "That last Saturday you worked, I was really stressed about work and took a break from my office to…try out your magic wand on my own."

"How do you think you can tell me basically the hottest thing I've ever heard without me wanting to ravish you?"

"It's late and we've been up for a long time."

"So unfair. Did you think about me while you—"

"There's no one else I would have thought of." Santana blushes a little. "I get why you like it, but I like being with you more."

"Oh, please. It doesn't even compare to you, it's just a total boredom killer when you're at work and I wish I could be going down on you but meanwhile I'm stuck here alone."

"I can't even believe I'm having this conversation."

"You've opened up a lot since I've met you."

"The me who met you never would have even considered that…let alone some of the things we've done together." Santana shakes her head.

"It's different when there's feelings. You want to try new things."

"You, Brittany Pierce, have opened up a whole new world to me."


	25. And Don't It Feel Good?

Brittany is really excited about her and Santana's anniversary. She knows that Santana has been planning this big dinner thing and she won't take that away from her but she wants to do something for Santana too, she wants to show her how much she means to her and even if she'll never have the kind of money that Santana does to spend on fancy gifts, Brittany has been putting a little money aside every week so she can buy something for the love of her life.

Because she doesn't want to go shopping alone, Brittany calls Artie. He's usually home during the day and he agrees to go look at gifts for Santana with her. Brittany is surprisingly nervous about it, knowing that she has to be really careful about what she buys Santana and she's glad she has a second set of eyes to help her figure out what the best thing to get is.

"So you're buying jewelry?" Artie asks, popping a wheelie in his wheelchair.

"Yeah, but nothing gaudy. She likes simple and classy stuff and it can't be anything with hearts or something."

"Is it hard being with someone in the closet?"

"Sometimes." Brittany shrugs. "But she's like, sort of out, you know? Just not to her family or at work, or like, in not gay spaces. It's just different for people like her than it is for people like us. You're a film maker, I'm a dancer, we're pretty much supposed to be a bunch of queers."

"I guess. So nothing that looks like it was bought by another woman?"

"Exactly. I was thinking maybe like, a chain that has my birthstone on it. Then everybody else can just think that she likes the color but she can know that she gets to keep me close to her heart."

"You never struck me as a romantic." Artie laughs. "And yet here you are."

"She's like, totally romantic and I want to try to do something awesome back. I couldn't really afford to buy her anything nice until now, but since she refuses to let me pay a single bill, I was able to save a bunch of money to buy her a gift. So let's do this."

Brittany pushes Artie's wheelchair into the jewelry store and she spends an hour looking over every single piece, even the ones way out of her price range. She finally goes back to her original idea and looks over the birthstones, picking out a ruby on a gold chain. Red totally suits Santana too, so it's perfect and she has the cashier wrap it up for her. She's a little nervous about whether or not Santana is going to like it, but Artie assures her that she will. Because Santana isn't working late, Brittany declines Artie's offer to come hang out with everyone and she goes home to hide the necklace in her drawer before Santana gets home.

Over the next few days, Brittany keeps checking the drawer to make sure that the necklace is still there, as if it was going to disappear, and each time she sees the wrapped box, she breathes a sigh of relief. On the morning of their anniversary, she's the first one out of bed, wanting to bring Santana breakfast before she gets up for work. Because she's a terrible cook, she turns on the coffee pot and runs around the corner to pick up Santana's favorite omelet from the diner there. When she gets home, she slides it out of the styrofoam and onto a plate, then pours a cup of coffee for Santana before padding back into the bedroom.

"Brittany, what are you doing up?" Santana mumbles, rolling over in bed.

"I brought you breakfast." She grins. "Don't worry, I didn't make it."

"I'd still eat it if you made it." Santana smiles, sitting up and leaning over to give Brittany a kiss. "You really didn't have to do this."

"If I would have had time I would have gone to the diner where I took you the first night we met…but then you would have been late for work and I don't want to make you grumpy today."

"Nothing can make me grumpy today. It's been a year since you made my life so much better and I'm happy that we get to celebrate."

"Duh, obviously me too."

"I made reservations for tonight, I hope that's okay."

"Santana." Brittany laughs, kissing her lips again. "I know you and I figured you would. I get out of work at five."

"I know. I made the reservations for eight so you have time to come home and get ready."

"You didn't have to do any of this."

"There are a lot of things I can't give you, but I can give you this. Let me."

"Okay. I will."

After Santana eats her breakfast, Brittany goes back under the covers while she showers. She doesn't have to be at work until eleven and considering she's not the best morning person, she wants to go back to sleep. She does wake up again though when Santana kisses her goodbye and she promises that she'll be ready by the time she gets home from work. Brittany sees that Santana is kind of giddy when she leaves and she thinks it's the cutest thing.

When Brittany finally gets out of bed, she's in a really good mood. She goes to work and she doesn't even feel grumpy about teaching jazz aerobics to old people. She chats with Carl and Emma, she spends half of her lunch break in the studio practicing a dance she made up, she just feels good because it's a really good day. By the time she leaves, she's tired but she know she has an amazing night ahead of her so she gulps a hot coffee before she jumps on her bike and then she speeds home, wanting to be showered and ready before Santana walks in the door.

It turns out she has a lot of time and she relaxes in the shower, letting the hot water soothe her sore muscles from work. She gets out and she gels her hair before she pulls on a tight dress and takes a lot of time with her makeup. She's just finishing up when Santana walks in the door and she grins when she sees her enter the bedroom. She looks really sexy in a pantsuit and Brittany sort of wishes they didn't have dinner reservations so she could rip it off of her and throw her down on the bed. Sue her, her girlfriend is really sexy and she can't control herself.

"What?" Santana asks, seeing the way Brittany looks at her.

"Do you know how hot you are? I mean, like, for reals, it's taking everything in me to keep my hands off of you."

"I'm just in work clothes…"

"Which you obviously look the hottest in. Are you wearing that to dinner? Because I might not be able to keep my hands off of you."

"I'm changing." Santana laughs. "I don't want to feel like I'm at a work meeting."

"Can we role play tonight that you're the banker and I'm your client?"

"The last time we tried to role play I felt really weird…"

"Okay fine." Brittany smiles and kisses Santana. "But I'm still going to rock your world when we get home."

"I'm kind of counting on it."

Santana changes and then they're out on the curb hailing a cab to take them to the French restaurant where they had their late night date after Santana freaked out. Brittany is so glad that they're in a good place and though she wishes she could hold Santana's hand in the cab, she settles for the closeness to her and the idea that later on, she'll have her all to herself where she can touch her everywhere and make her forget her own name. She loves when Santana's mind goes blank and she loves that she can to that to her and when they get out of the cab outside the restaurant, Brittany feels a little flushed just thinking about later.

They're led to the back of the restaurant where Santana requested a private table and Brittany smiles as she watches Santana tip the maitre'd. She thinks it's really sexy that Santana is important and she loves watching her walk into a place with authority. They're barely seated when a waiter brings them a bottle of champagne and then he steps back, giving them privacy with their glasses as their menus.

"I want to give a toast." Santana murmurs, looking down into her glass. "To the best thing that's ever happened to me, and to another fifty years with you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Britt. I know I was weird at Mike and Artie's wedding, but I never don't want to be with you. I've found my person in you and I hope you'll have me for that long."

"I'm not going anywhere, babe. Seriously, I plan to grow old with you and travel the world with you when you finally get to retire."

"You know it'll be awhile, right?"

"Totally. But I'm going to be here for it. Imagine how much more relaxed you'll be."

"I'm sorry I'm so high strung all the time…"

"You don't have to be sorry, that's who I fell in love with. But I do want you to be able to not feel so anxious because it's better for you."

"I know." Santana nods, then stops talking so they can both look at their menus. "Do you know what you want?"

"I think so, yeah. I'm just so excited thinking about giving you your present that I can hardly focus."

"Brittany, you didn't have—"

"I wanted to. You always buy me the best things and I might not have the kind of money that you do, but I saved to get you something special."

The waiter comes back to the table and they order their food, Santana perfectly pronouncing the French even though she doesn't speak it, and Brittany stumbling over the words but being clear enough so the waiter understands. When he leaves, Brittany takes the wrapped package out of her bag and Santana does the same from hers, sliding a long flat box across the table. Brittany grins at her and hands the gift she's so excited about to Santana, who flushes.

"It's a jewelry box."

"I mean, yeah, but don't do that thing you do where you try to guess gifts when the box is right in front of you." Brittany laughs. "Open it."

"Is that…" Santana unwraps the box and fingers the necklace inside. "My birthstone?"

"No, and it's obscene that you don't know that." Brittany shakes her head. "It's mine."

"Brittany."

"I knew getting you a heart or something would make Terry ask you questions at work, so I figured this could be a private little way of you having me with you."

"I…" Santana tears up a little and takes the necklace out of the box, clasping it around her neck. "This is the nicest thing anyone has ever given to me."

"You really like it?"

"I love it so much. I wish I could kiss you right now to show you."

"I'll settle for this." Brittany gives Santana's hand a quick squeeze under the table. "Now me!"

Quickly, Brittany unwraps the package and finds the now familiar red Cartier box beneath the paper. She shakes her head at Santana, thinking it's absurd that she spends so much money on her, and then opens the box. Inside is a chain with two joined rings on it and Brittany loses her breath. Considering the conversation they'd had the night of Artie and Mike's wedding, it's a lot to handle and she looks at Santana for an explanation.

"It's not in place of an engagement ring." Santana shakes her head. "I just wanted to let you know that I thought a lot about it and it's a promise. I don't know when I'll be comfortable with the idea of a marriage that isn't equal to everyone else's, but someday I will be and you're the only person I'll ever want that with."

"Jeeze." Tears stream down Brittany's face. "Okay."

After putting her necklace on, it takes everything in Brittany not to dive across the table and kiss Santana. But she controls herself and their dinner comes shortly after. They eat in almost silence, both of them clearly reflecting on the year they've had together, and the finish the bottle of champagne before Santana orders another. When dessert is done and they're both a little drunk, Santana makes to stand up and Brittany follows suit. They make their way out to the curb and Santana hails a cab, sliding in first so Brittany doesn't have to.

The whole way home, Brittany notices that Santana fingers her necklace and she realizes that it's the first time anyone has ever bought her a piece of jewelry. A shock of hair falls across her face, illuminated in the streetlights and Brittany longs to tuck it behind her ear. It feels like forever until they get home and Brittany can hardly wait to touch Santana. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Brittany pulls Santana to her and just holds her in an embrace. There's no rush to have sex, there can be a moment of just being and Brittany breathes in the scent of Santana's shampoo as she holds her close. A year ago, everything was brand new and now here they are, their whole life spread out before them.

"Thank you for dinner." Brittany murmurs.

"Thank you for you." Santana whispers back. "Do you want wine or anything?"

"I'm totally a little drunk from the champagne. I mostly just want to take you to bed."

Santana nods and Brittany releases her from the embrace. They go to the bedroom and Santana stands in front of the bed. They both know that Brittany is really into undressing her so she doesn't make to take off her dress. Instead, she pulls back the comforter and waits until Brittany stands in front of her, slowly easing the zipper down her back and kissing her shoulder. Brittany is always so adventurous when it comes to sex, but she knows that Santana's favorite is soft and intimate and she wants to give her that. She slides the dress down Santana's body and she slides her hands up Santana's back, playing with her bra clasp before actually unhooking it.

When she finally does expose Santana's breasts, she kisses her on the lips first, the moves her mouth lower, peppering kisses down her neck, across her collar bone, over the tops of her breasts, before stopping to take a nipple into her mouth. Santana arches into Brittany as she does it and Brittany smiles against her skin, letting her hands begin to slide down Santana's panty hose. Putting her hands back against the bed to hold herself up, Santana has the balance so that when Brittany removes her mouth from her nipple and goes to finish undressing her, she has the balance to lift one foot at a time off the ground.

Once Santana is undressed, Brittany lays her back on the bed and quickly gets her own clothes off before crawling over Santana. She loves how she looks splayed out on silk sheets and she kisses her deeply, drinking all of her in. Santana tucks Brittany's hair behind her ears so that she can see her face and Brittany just beams down at her, reveling in her own happiness. They do nothing but kiss for a long time and Brittany winds her hair through Santana's dark curls, trying to get as close to her as she possibly can.

"I got so lucky with you." Santana whispers. "You're one of a kind."

"You deserve good things, babe, and we're good together."

With a smile, Brittany moves back down Santana's body. She laves plenty of attention on her breasts because she knows that it's a sensitive spot for Santana, but then she moves further down, kissing Santana's still-red scar from end to end. Santana squirms a little while she does it and Brittany is aware that she's self-conscious about it—it took her a while to show Brittany, after all—but she wants to show her how she loves every bit of her, even the parts that are imperfect. Once she's done with the scar, she spreads Santana's legs and settles beneath them, propping herself up on her elbows. She's been with women before but there's never been anything quite like going down on Santana. It's the one time in Santana's life where she gets to completely let loose and Brittany loves watching someone so careful and controlled let it all go.

"Britt." Santana moans as Brittany wraps her lips around her clit.

"You're amped." Brittany lifts her head and grins. "You know it's better if you let me take my time."

Brittany works her mouth against Santana until she falls apart, feet scrabbling against the sheets, hands holding her head closer. She waits until Santana's hands loosen in her hair before she positions herself so her sex rubs against Santana's. They've only done this a few times, but while Santana was surprised about it the first time, she's seemed to enjoy it subsequent times and Brittany loves getting off like this. Santana is hot and slippery when Brittany moves against her and the though that she's like that only because of her makes Brittany more turned on than she can imagine.

After she feels Santana come again first, Brittany finally lets herself go. As spent as she is after she falls apart, she manages to untangle her limbs from Santana and gather her up in her arms. She loves post-sex Santana, how sleepy and cuddly and warm she is, how she rests her head on Brittany's chest and plays with her fingers. She's soft and relaxed and Brittany kisses the top of her head. A year ago, she couldn't imagine that they would be here like this. She couldn't imagine that Santana would let her in, would relax in her arms, would let herself feel safe. But she has, and it makes Brittany really happy.

"Did you really mean what you said at dinner?" Brittany asks, touching the side of Santana's face.

"I did. After the last time we went out with Mike and Artie, I think I started to understand why they did it. Things are falling apart right now and they wanted to make that commitment to each other in spite of everything else."

"That's what I wanted you to see that day. I don't need a proposal from you until you're ready, but I just want you to understand why our love isn't less than anyone else's."

"It's just hard for me. Maybe you're too young to remember it, but back in the early seventies, Life magazine had this whole thing about gays. My father tore it up when he caught me reading it and cancelled his subscription. Every association I had with my sexuality was a bad one until you came along. I spent years hiding in dark bars and having one night stands. The idea of…oral sex was something I couldn't even imagine because it was way too much. Even if we were to get married, I'll still have to hide at work and from my family. Sometimes I just think that none of this is fair to you."

"I want you, no matter what." Brittany promises. "All I care about is how you make me feel, and you make me feel better than I ever have in my life."

"I'm glad, because that's how you make me feel too."

"What do you think it'll be like for us in fifty years?"

"I don't know, maybe we won't be living in the city anymore. Maybe we buy a house on Fire Island or up in the Catskills when we retire and we walk in the woods or on the beach every day. We could sit out on our porch and have our coffee in the morning. I guess all that really matters to me is that you're there with me in fifty years, we can figure out the rest of the details when we get there."

"Having a house out of the city sounds good, but don't you love it here?"

"I like it enough. I love this house." Santana shrugs. "But we could probably keep it."

"I like talking about the future with you. I guess before I met you, I never really thought about it, I was just living one day at a time."

"My future feels so much better with you in it. Imagine just thinking you were going to grow old alone."

"Babe, that makes me sad."

"You don't have to feel sad, it's not that way anymore."

Brittany has to just hold Santana tightly for a few minutes after that, not saying anything. She may not have thought about the future, but she always figured she'd be with someone. For Santana to think she would have been alone makes Brittany feel heartbroken and she plays with the chain around her neck, knowing that's not the case anymore. Santana burrows into Brittany's chest and she kisses the top of her head. Santana is on top everywhere in the real world, but the fact that she lets herself be vulnerable in the bedroom, lets Brittany hold her, makes Brittany feel so glad that she can be something for someone that's given her so much.

"I wish tomorrow was Saturday." Santana finally says. "I'd really like to sleep in."

"By sleep in, do you mean eight o'clock?" Brittany laughs.

"Hey, it's sleeping in for me."

"Do you want to maybe take a ride upstate on my bike this weekend? I'm probably not going to have much longer to take it out this year and the leaves are changing so it could be totally cool."

"Yeah, that sounds good. I'd like to just relax and not think about anything."

"Is work okay?" Brittany asks.

"We don't have to talk about work in bed."

"If there's something you want to talk about, I don't care where we are."

"It's just been a lot of stress lately. Hudson won't leave me alone and I think firing him will just make everyone act up worse. I don't know what to do."

"You're the boss, they should respect you."

"I'm a woman in a man's world, a Hispanic woman at that. I'm never going to get the same respect as a man in my position." Santana sighs.

"I think it's kind of bullshit, you work harder than anyone."

"Brittany, you know as well as I do that it isn't always about how hard you work. There are workplace politics, I have to play the game and try not to ruffle any feathers. Honestly, I wouldn't put it above Hudson to go to my higher ups if I fired him and who knows what he would say about me."

"Are you scared about…you know?"

"I'm always scared about that. I know that standing up for Hummel put me out there but I couldn't not do it. As far as they know, I'm single, I'm what they call a man-eater. There are tells there."

"Babe."

"I'm just saying he could blackmail me with his very little evidence and concealing something and lying are two very different things."

"So you have to let him have control?"

"I have to do what it takes to keep me job. The life we live depends on it."

"You know we could live in a tiny one bedroom apartment and I'd still love you, right? All of this is just…extra."

"I know." Santana nods, playing with Brittany's hair. "But I worked really hard for all of this and I want to keep it."

"I get that. I just want you to protect yourself too."

"I think that's what I'm doing, even if it feels like a shitty way of going about it."

"I support you whatever you want to do, I just hate when you're all stressed out."

"I'm very relaxed right now." She laughs a little. "You made sure of that."

"And we're going to have a majorly relaxing weekend."

"Definitely. Let's just get through tomorrow first."


	26. Never Gonna Give You Up, Never Gonna Let

On the Friday of a long week at work, Santana is especially looking forward to a low key weekend with Brittany. The weather is getting colder and she thinks that just laying on the couch snuggling with Brittany will be possibly the best thing in the entire world. Hudson has driven her crazy the entire week, messing up deposits, getting snarky with customers and just being a general nuisance. She thinks that 5:00 can't come soon enough, when she can lock the doors and just be done with the bank for two whole days. She's thinking about it longingly when Terri buzzes her from her desk.

"Your mother is on line one."

"Got it, thanks." Santana rolls her eyes a little and picks up the phone. "Hello."

" _Hello, Santana. I'm calling to tell you that your father and I will be in the city tomorrow and we'd like to come by for dinner."_

"Oh." She takes a breath and sees her relaxing weekend completely going down the drain. But it's so hard to say no to her mother, even though a big part of her would prefer to never see her again. "That's fine. What time should I expect you?"

" _Around five, your father has a meeting and I'm having lunch with a friend."_

"Five is fine, I'll see you tomorrow."

Santana hangs up the phone and leans back in her chair groaning. Her stomach already hurts at the thought of her parents coming over and especially at the thought of telling Brittany. She wants Brittany to stay, she wants Brittany to stay so badly, but she'll understand if she doesn't want to. Her parents, her mother especially, do not treat Brittany well and Santana thinks that if she were Brittany, she'd run out the door as fast as possible. And on top of all that, it's after four and Millie has left for the week, so she is going to have to come up with something to cook for dinner on her own.

When 5:00 finally comes, Santana doesn't feel the relief that she'd been hoping to feel. Instead, she just feels incredibly stressed out about tomorrow and she takes her time at her desk, making sure everything is settled after her employees leave. After she finishes, she says goodnight to Ken, the lone security guard and locks the door behind her, looking for a cab on the windy and rainy October night. She finally gets one and she leans her head back against the seat, pulling her jacket more tightly around herself and feeling like she could just start crying.

Brittany isn't home yet when she gets home and figuring she could at least have something ready for dinner when she gets home, she orders Chinese food and changes out of her work clothes. Once she's done, she sinks down into the couch and puts her head in her hands. She wishes she knew how to say no to the people who strive to make her life a living hell, the people who are supposed to love her unconditionally, but she just can't. Despite everything, she still longs for them to love and accept her and her heart feels really broken when Brittany walks in the door.

"Hey babe." Brittany drops her dance bag by the door and slides off her shoes. "You okay?"

"Not really." Santana shrugs. "My parents are coming for dinner tomorrow."

"Oh." Brittany sits down next to Santana and rubs her shoulders. "I'll call Sugar and see what she's doing."

"Yeah, I mean, if that's what you want to do."

"I just don't want to make this harder for you."

"It's easier when you're around." She mumbles, looking down at her hands. "But I get that they're awful and you shouldn't have to be around that."

"I'll stay."

"Don't feel guilted into it."

"I don't." Brittany takes Santana's hand. "I love you and I want to be here for you. It's just like Easter, I'm not going to leave you alone."

"You don't know how much I appreciate that. All I wanted to do this weekend was hang out in sweatpants with you and now there's this…"

"We still have Sunday for sweatpants." Brittany shrugs. "At least that's something."

"You're right. I just…don't want them here."

"I know."

The night is quiet, though Santana gets up off the couch after dinner and starts going through the kitchen to catalogue what Millie has left that she can possibly figure out a dinner from. She realizes it's fruitless to even try, Millie only buys the things on Santana's list, plus whatever she'll use to make her and Brittany dinner during the week. Santana realizes she has to call Zabar's in the morning and pray it's enough time to order catered food for dinner. She honestly just feels sick to her stomach when she leaves the kitchen and she tells Brittany that she's going to go to bed. Brittany, because she's Brittany, follows her to the bedroom and curls up behind her, squeezing Santana's shoulders and rubbing her back. It makes Santana feel a little bit more relaxed, but it's a long time before she's able to fall asleep.

Brittany is still asleep when Santana gets out of bed, brushing her teeth and then getting on the phone to try and order food. Luckily for her, the woman at Zabar's says that they'll deliver the dinner she picked out by 4:00 and Santana manages to take a breath, thinking that at least there'll be dinner on the table for what's sure to be a train wreck. Her mom hates Brittany living there, she's made it quite clear, and it makes her sick just thinking that it's going to come up again, thinking that her mother will be certain to make Brittany uncomfortable even though she belongs there so much more than the Lopezes do.

Santana can tell that Brittany is tiptoeing around her all day. She feels bad that she gets so stressed out that she makes Brittany nervous, but she just can't help it. She's sick to her stomach thinking about her parents being there, thinking about how the weekend she'd just wanted to rest with Brittany is completely ruined. At 3:00, she gets in the shower. She thinks of how her mother had made her put on regular clothes when she was sick and she knows that she has to be dressed for dinner. She won't expect Brittany to be, but as for herself, she just doesn't have a choice. After Santana gets out of the shower, she puts on a dress and her birthstone necklace from Brittany. If nothing else, she'll feel better that she's wearing it.

While Santana signs for the food from Zabar's, Brittany gets in the shower. It shocks Santana when she comes out wearing a dress she's never seen before. She wonders if that's where she'd been when she went out earlier and she's not sure if it makes her heart swell or break. Everything in her always feels mixed up when it comes to her parents and just for a moment before they get there, she sinks into Brittany's arms, feeling her strong arms wrap around her.

"Are you okay?" Brittany asks.

"Not really. My heart won't stop racing and I feel a little sick."

"Tonight, after they're gone, we can take a bath together and I'll give you a massage."

"That sounds so good. You always know how to calm me down."

Before too long, the doorbell rings and Santana steps back from Brittany and takes a breath. While Santana goes to the door, Brittany goes into the kitchen to check on the food and Santana gives her one last smile. When Santana opens the door, her mother is wrapped in fur, despite it being only late October, and she pushes her way past Santana and into the house. There are no formalities, no time where her mother pretends she's happy to see her and even her father is awkward as Santana offers to take their coats.

"Mama, Papa, can I get you something to drink?"

"We brought wine." She reaches into her bag and takes out a bottle of red. "You know I don't like the wine you drink."

"Okay, well make yourselves comfortable, I'll go pour this." Carrying the bottle with her, Santana goes into the kitchen where Brittany is poking at the roast with a fork. "Get me a bottle of tequila, please."

"That bad already?"

"It's just perpetually that bad, Britt." Santana sighs. "I'll just bring them their wine, do you mind carrying a glass of white for me?"

"On it."

Santana carries the two glasses back into the living room where her parents have made themselves comfortable on the couch. A minute later, Brittany comes in with two glasses of white and Santana watches the expression on her mother's face change the instant she sees Brittany. It makes Santana's stomach twist and she just wants to scream. Brittany never did anything to anyone. There's no reason for her to be treated like garbage.

"Brittany." Mrs. Lopez looks her up and down. "I didn't expect you to be here."

"I invited her, Mama. She was off of work tonight."

"Well." She huffs. "That's something."

As much as she hates to leave Brittany alone with her parents, Santana goes to start putting the food on the table in the dining room. Once she's done, she goes back into the living room and is stopped abruptly in her tracks by the way her mother is speaking to Brittany.

"Really, it's unacceptable that you're living here. There are dormitories for girls if you can't afford to pay rent. There's no reason you should be taking advantage of my daughter. And to be a part of her family dinner, that's just…appalling."

"Mama." Santana feels bile rising in her throat. "Don't speak to her that way."

"Don't speak to your mother that way." Dr. Lopez interjects.

"Santana, it's fine." Brittany murmurs.

"No, it's not fine. Brittany is living here because I choose to have her here. It's not your place to tell her that she shouldn't stay."

"I'm looking out for you, Santana. If only you would consider what people would think."

"No one thinks anything because my neighbors mind their own business. I just…I think you should go."

"This is unbelievable. You're choosing this _girl_ over your own family?"

"Brittany is my best friend and she's never done anything but try to impress you. I won't accept you talking to her the way you were."

"Roderigo, lets go." She gets to her feet and Santana feels her knees weaken.

"Lucia—"

"I won't stay and be spoken to like this."

Santana finds that she can't stay on her feet as they walk out the door. She's never stood up to her mother before and she's fairly certain that she might vomit. Sitting on the couch, she puts her head in her hands and tries not to cry. Hearing that woman try to guilt Brittany into leaving not only made her angry, it also terrified her. The moment the front door clicks shut, Brittany sinks down on the couch beside Santana and wraps her arms around her, holding her close.

"You didn't have to do that, babe. It would have been okay."

"It wasn't okay. This is our home and she was trying to convince you to leave. I just…don't want you to ever want to leave because it gets to be too much. I can't do much, but I can prevent someone from speaking to you like that." Big fat tears roll down Santana's cheeks and Brittany wipes them away.

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise you that. I know that you try to keep the peace with your mother…"

"Not at your expense. I've let her talk for too long about how you shouldn't be living here. It's not right."

"I don't like to see you cry."

"I'm okay." Santana sniffles. "It's just a lot."

"I hate that she gets you like this. It makes me more mad at her than anything that she makes you so sad."

"I just…need you to hold me like this. It's the only thing that makes me feel like everything else is okay."

"I'll hold you for as long as you need, I promise."

Santana ends up falling asleep sitting up in Brittany's arms. She hadn't slept well the last night and she just cried until she couldn't cry anymore and found a restfulness engulfed in Brittany's embrace. By the time she wakes up, the dinner is long cold and when she stands, Brittany insists on heating up a plate for her while she relaxes. She is so mentally exhausted that she can't even fight that and she lets Brittany bring her a plate on the living room couch, even though she hates eating there. The food just tastes like sawdust to her, but she manages to get some down and then she refuses to let Brittany clean up everything alone. Side by side, they wash the dishes and put the leftovers in Tupperware before Santana goes in the bedroom to put her pajamas on.

"Are you going to bed?" Brittany asks when she comes in to do the same.

"I don't think so. I just want to be out of that dress. Maybe I'll make it up for _Saturday Night Live_ tonight, I don't know."

"Whatever you want to do, I'll go to bed when you do."

"If you're tired, we can go to bed."

"I'm not, you know I usually make it up on Saturday nights even if you end up falling asleep, but I want to go to bed with you tonight."

"Thank you, I really need that. Today was just a lot and having your arms around me…"

"I know."

"You make everything okay, Britt. You really just…I don't even know how to explain it."

"I love you, Santana. I want to be the one that makes it better when the world sucks big."

"You are. I know I'm going to have to deal with this mess at some point but tonight I want to lay on the couch with you and watch TV."

"Then that's what we'll do. I'm totally down for it."

When Brittany settles in behind Santana and wraps her arms around her waist, Santana relaxes again. There's just something about Brittany's breath against her ear that soothes her and she couldn't ask for anything more than that. She can't pay much attention to the television, but she plays with Brittany's fingers, she feels her heartbeat, she just revels in her presence there. She knows that Brittany knows she isn't focusing, but she manages to stay up through Saturday Night Live and then makes to get up from the couch. It's long past when she should be in bed and Brittany trails behind her into the bathroom where they brush their teeth together side by side. Once they finally settle into bed together, Santana presses her nose to Brittany's and just breathes her in.

"You're really special." Brittany murmurs.

"I'm not."

"You are. You're brave and strong and amazing. I'm proud of you for standing up to your mother, even though you didn't have to."

"It's hard to feel so much hatred for her. But if she knew who I really was, she'd hate me too."

"She's ignorant. Jeeze, I lived with a whole bunch of people and no one thought I was dating any of them. I don't know why she's so obsessed with people thinking you're dating me."

"Because it's hard enough for her to think I'm unmarried, then living with another woman…what man would want that?"

"So dumb." Brittany rolls her eyes. "Will you have to see her again before Thanksgiving?"

"I'm not going there this year. You'll be home, Mercedes wants to come by after dinner with her family, I know Kurt's dad isn't local so maybe he wants to come over…I just can't do another year of being in that kitchen with my aunts. I'm still recovering from my ulcer, I don't need another."

"So you're not doing it just for me?"

"Just for you would be enough reason, but I'm doing it for me too. I've tried for so long, I'm just ready to not."

"Okay. I mean, I'm totally glad that's what you want."

"We've been together over a year. It's time we start our own holiday traditions together."

Wrapped in Brittany, Santana falls asleep. Her rest is dreamless and she's glad that she doesn't have nightmares about her mother. By the time she wakes up, Brittany is already out of bed and she's surprised to find egg sandwiches on the kitchen table when she finishes brushing her teeth and meanders into the kitchen for her coffee. Brittany hands her the _Wall Street Journal_ and she sits quietly and reads, absorbing the news and not thinking about the day before. Her breakfast is exactly what she needed and she smiles at Brittany over the paper.

"Plans today?" Brittany asks.

"I was hoping to just stay in. I don't want to stress about anything."

"That sounds good to me."

"I think Mercedes might come by, but that's the only thing…"

"Mercedes hates me."

"She doesn't hate you at all. She knows you make me happy."

"She thinks I'm trying to take your money."

"Oh please." Santana rolls her eyes. "I'd give you all my money if you actually wanted it. But you won't even take five dollars from me."

"She doesn't know that."

"I'll tell her again if it will make you feel better."

"I just don't think she'll believe you. She's super protective of you and I appreciate that, but I'd also like if she liked me."

"We just haven't spent a lot of time with her. She works even more than I do."

"I know. It's just…shitty."

"She won't be here long, and I'll tell her not to come if it's going to make you grumpy."

"She's your best friend, I don't want you to tell her not to come." Brittany bites on her lower lip. "I'll just, try to be cool with her."

"I promise she doesn't hate you."

"Really?"

"Really."

After breakfast, Santana has a little work to do in her office and as much as she would like to avoid it, she can't. She gets dressed and she sits in there going through paperwork and smoking a cigar until Brittany comes in and insists she be done with it. Putting everything away, Santana comes out and falls into Brittany's arms on the couch. That's all she really has wanted to do all weekend but it seems things keep getting in the middle of it. They're barely resting long enough when the doorbell rings and Santana groans, getting up to get it. Mercedes is there and Santana welcomes her into the house, a little on edge about Brittany's earlier concerns.

"Brittany." Mercedes nods. "Nice to see you."

"You too, Mercedes. Can I get you wine? Or beer? Or juice?"

"A beer would be good, I try not to drink wine so early in the day." Mercedes tells her and Brittany goes into the kitchen, leaving just Mercedes and Santana.

"Can you be nicer to her? It's bad enough she suffers through my mother…"

"When am I not nice to her?"

"She thinks you hate her." Santana confesses. "And you honestly haven't made much of an effort with her."

"What do you expect me to do? She's totally different than anyone I'd ever expect you with."

"And I've been with her for a year. She's the one. I just want to two to be friends."

"I'll try, for you. I just don't knew what we'd have in common."

"You both like music, talk to her about music."

Santana and Mercedes sit down on the couch and Brittany comes back in carrying two beers and a glass of red wine for Santana. For a few minutes, it's really uncomfortable, but then Mercedes brings up Michael Jackson and suddenly Brittany is completely animated. Behind her hand, Santana smiles and watches as her girlfriend and her best friend debate music. She's glad that she suggested the topic and just hopes it really does something to bridge the gap between them.

"So, Santana, you never told me how Arizona was."

"It was good, right Britt?"

"I was glad to introduce Santana to my family, they had been itching to meet her."

"You're lucky you got her to go. I've known her since college and she still tries to avoid being around my family." Mercedes rolls her eyes.

"Speaking of family, my mother may never speak to me again."

"Praise! What did you do this time?"

"I live with Brittany. She came over yesterday and told Britt that she should live in a dormitory and that she's taking advantage of me." Santana bites her lip a little after she says it, hoping Mercedes' fears about Brittany taking her money have faded. "What would the neighbors think, you know?"

"That's how you know she doesn't live in the city. Doesn't she remember Kitty Genovese?"

"Who's Kitty Genovese?" Brittany's eyes widen.

"She's this woman who was murdered when we were kids." Santana puts her hand on Brittany's knee. "Apparently no one called the police because they were minding their own business."

"That's…morbid."

"Sorry." Mercedes twists her hands. "I was just making a point that no one even worries about what goes on over here."

"Yeah, I know." Santana sighs. "My mother is just a lot."

"I'm sorry, I know she's your mother, babe, but I'm never going to like her for the way she treats you."

"That's absolutely something we're in agreement on." Mercedes nods. "But I know it's hard, Santana."

"I told Brittany that I'm not going to spend the holidays with her. We haven't worked it out yet, but we might be in Arizona for Christmas. If not, I'd just like to spend it here."

The conversation turns to lighter subjects and Santana is glad that she has her best friend and her girlfriend around after such a hard day yesterday. Mercedes has things to do, so she has to go before long and it surprises Santana when she hugs Brittany goodbye. If nothing else, Santana is glad that came out of the weekend and once Mercedes is gone, she locks the door and sinks back down into the couch. Brittany is at her side and she rests her head on her shoulder, so comfortable in her presence.

"Santana?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think I want to go to Arizona for Christmas."

"Really?" Santana looks up at Brittany, who looks sober. "What about your sister?"

"I miss my sister a lot, but you're jumpy in Arizona. I think I want to spend it here, where you can just relax and be yourself."

"I can try to relax at your parents' house."

"But you won't. We only got to spend half of last Christmas together and I think I'd like to do it here, under the tree we pick out, just me and you."

"I don't want you to sacrifice your family for me."

"You _are_ my family, Santana. I love you more than anyone else in the world and honestly, if it wasn't for you, I'd never be able to afford to go to Arizona anyway. This is what I want. But I understand if you forgive your mom and have to spend part of the day there."

"I'm not going to do that. I want to excuse myself from the holidays with my family this year. It's been a really hard year and I think sitting under the Christmas tree with you is something I really want."

"I have one more thing I want."

"Anything."

"I want us to make presents this year. I kind of…spent a lot on our anniversary and don't you dare feel bad about it, but I think it would be fun if we made gifts."

"I have no idea how I would even do that." Santana's eyes widen.

"I totally know you can. I don't want to get you something lame when you go back to Cartier or something so I think this levels the playing field."

"You have Tina and Lauren, they're always making something."

"I promise, if you agree to this, I'll do it all on my own."

"Okay, then I think that's fair."

Santana cuddles into Brittany's side for a long time. She really feels like it's all that she'd wanted and though she has to go back to work tomorrow, she's going to spend as much time as possible doing just that. Brittany, because she can't sit still, plays with Santana's hair, strokes Santana's sides, murmurs things into her ear, just makes her feel really safe and protected. It's something she never experienced in her life before Brittany, her parents never did that, never made her feel like home was a safe place and in the years before Brittany, she could only feel like home was a place to let her hair down after stressful days at work. It wasn't a place where she could be caressed and kissed and loved. But now she has just that, now she's safe, now she knows what love is like.

"That feels really good." Santana murmurs. "I love when you play with my hair."

"It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful."

"Did you know that no one ever called me that before you?"

"What? Santana that's like, totally insane."

"I've been called hot and sexy, but I think beautiful is way more intimate. And it feels that way especially coming from you."

"Well I mean it a lot. I could look at your face forever."

"Just so you know, I could look at your face forever too."

"It makes me sad sometimes that people have never said nice things about you. You deserve to hear them."

"It is what it is I guess. My parents don't say nice things about anyone, the people at work are just…whatever. Mercedes and I don't really do that in our friendship. But now I have you."

"You look like you're just so tired after yesterday, inside and outside."

"I am. I'm honestly considering taking a sick day tomorrow just to have some time to decompress." Santana admits, shocking Brittany that she'd actually consider a sick day.

"Do you want me to leave you alone right now? If you need some space…"

"I want you here, I don't need space from you. But tomorrow I could reorganize some things around here, let Millie make me lunch, just veg out on the couch. I don't know, I feel like I want a day."

"You should. It's been long enough since you had your surgery and you deserve it."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to. Things have been really tough at work and I really needed this weekend to relax. But since that didn't really happen…"

"I'll love seeing you sleep in when I leave for work. I know you kiss me on the head when you leave and I'm still sleeping, so I'll totally do that for you."

"That makes me so happy." Santana smiles. "And just so you know, I really do feel like I'm decompressing right now in your arms."

"I hope so. I just want you to be okay, babe."

"Britt, no matter what my mother has to say, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"You don't worry about what she says? About people knowing?"

"I'm always worried about people knowing, but here in this house I feel safe with you."

"I hate that the world has made you so stressed. I forget sometimes, you know? My best friends are gay, Tina is bi, Lauren is probably dating her. You're just…alone."

"I'm not alone, because I have you."

"It's different though. I mean I guess you have Kurt now, but he's your employee. You're not going to open up to him like I do to my friends."

"I guess you're right. I just don't feel comfortable with other gay people, honestly."

"I wish you would find a community. It would be so good for you."

"That means coming out to a lot of people, I don't want to do that. I'm telling you, you're enough."

"Okay, if you say so. I just feel bad that I have other people."

"You don't have to feel bad, this is the life I chose." Santana bites her lip.

"I love you, Santana. All I want is for you to be happy."

"I promise you, Britt, I am."


	27. When the Ones You Love Are There

November passes quickly and Brittany finds herself getting incredibly excited about Christmas. She's already finished making Santana's gift and absolutely cannot wait to give it to her. With all of the end of the year stuff at the bank, Santana ends up working late most nights and Carl lets Brittany teach another class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, which fills a lot of her time. Even though she and Santana are making gifts for each other this year, Brittany wants to be able to chip in for the fancy dinner Santana ordered, so the extra money at work helps immensely.

When Christmas Eve comes, Brittany spends the morning attempting to bake cookies while Santana is at work. She follows Millie's recipes so carefully and she's surprised with herself that she actually doesn't do a bad job. The house smells good—even after one tray of peanut butter cookies was burnt—and Brittany puts them all on a pretty tray she bought at the Duane Reade, hoping to surprise Santana with them when she gets home. The rain has been pounding down outside the window and Brittany gets hot chocolate ready, knowing that Santana will be in a grumpy mood because of it and wanting to make her happy.

"This day." Santana opens the front door, soaked from head to toe and shivering.

"Babe, what happened?" Brittany comes to the door, taking in the sight of her very wet girlfriend.

"I waited twenty minutes for a cab and while I was, a truck drove by me and completely soaked me. Now I'm in the worst mood and I just want to enjoy this holiday with you."

"How about this? You go strip out of those wet clothes and I'll run us a bath? I bet you'll be in a way better mood when you're warm and naked."

"I was going to stop and get dinner on the way home before everything closed."

"Chinese takeout is open, I just want you to relax, that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

"You're cute." Santana laughs a little as she strips out of her wet coat. "And exactly what I need right now."

While Santana goes in the bedroom to get her clothes off, Brittany runs the hottest, most bubbly bath she can possibly make. She doesn't even wait for Santana to come into the bathroom, she just slips out of her clothes and slides into the tub, knowing that Santana likes to sit between her legs. By the time Santana gets into the bathroom—after presumably bagging up her clothes because they're wet and muddy and need to go to the dry cleaner without contaminating anything else—the tub is almost full and Brittany takes in her naked form in the split second before she climbs in with her.

"You don't even know how much better this is than being at my parents' house right now." Santana sighs, leaning back into Brittany. "She didn't even call to invite me."

"Has she…at all?"

"No. The first rule of the Lopez house is that you don't question authority. I broke that rule and until I apologize, I imagine she won't speak to me."

"Are you going to?"

"I know it's Christmas and I should wish them a merry one, but honestly, no. She disrespected you in our home and I'm not going to apologize for being upset with that. This has been a long time coming, Britt. I can't put up with how she behaves anymore. I'm trying to be more comfortable with myself, I really am, but I can't do that with her around."

"So you're really writing her off?"

"I…I don't know."

"It's okay if you don't, I don't want you to feel like you have to do that for me."

"I just really have so much guilt instilled in me from my whole childhood, it's hard."

"Listen, babe, I really support you, whatever you do. I'm not gonna keep you away from your family, I hope you know that."

"I do. And thank you. I'll figure it out, but as of right now, I'm not going to go running back to my mother."

They spend a long time in the bathtub and after they get out, Brittany calls for takeout. Maybe it's not a traditional Christmas Eve dinner but they've ordered a roast from Zabar's for Christmas Day that is sitting in the refrigerator and Brittany thinks that lounging at the kitchen table in their pajamas while they eat is kind of perfect. She loves that she actually gets to be with Santana on Christmas Eve, unlike last year, and she smiles at her over her plate of noodles and Kung pao chicken.

"Can I give you your gift tonight?" Santana asks. "It's a little time sensitive."

"Time sensitive? You did make your gift, right?"

"So full disclosure, I made half of it. But the half I made is connected to the other half and I didn't spend any money on it, so that's fair, right?"

"I think so." Brittany laughs. "I mostly just didn't want you buying me something really fancy, so if you didn't spend any money…"

"I promise, I didn't."

After dinner is finished, they wash the dishes and Santana goes up to the office for a little while to get her gift ready while Brittany takes hers out from the bottom drawer of her dresser. She really hopes that Santana appreciates the scrapbook she made, especially because it took her so long to find enough pictures of the two of them—and was insistent on taking a lot of them from the time they decided to do homemade gifts in October until when she got her last roll of film back two days ago. All she really wants is for Santana to see how perfect they look together and that no matter what the world sees, they fit together.

Santana finally comes back downstairs with two perfectly wrapped boxes and Brittany sits cross-legged under the Christmas tree. With the biggest smile, Santana sits down across from her and puts the boxes down and Brittany is pretty sure that she can hear a faint scratching sound coming from one of them. Santana just shrugs her shoulders and pushes the smaller box toward her and Brittany unwraps the paper, revealing a quilted pillow.

"I learned how to quilt." Santana smiles sheepishly. "But if you ask Hummel, he'll tell you I'm a terrible student."

"It's beautiful, Santana." Brittany beams.

"It makes more sense if you open the other box. It's not…exactly for you."

"My Christmas gift isn't for me?"

"I mean…it is, but also it's not."

Intrigued, Brittany begins to undo the ribbon on the other box. The scratching is not mistakable and when she gets the lid off, she sees a very tiny, but very fat kitten. She can't even hold in her squeal when she sees him and she's torn between hugging the kitten immediately to her chest and kissing Santana all over. Opting instead for a quick kiss to Santana and then lifting the little guy out of the box and into her arms, she feels like she's going to explode with joy.

"I didn't know what to make you and then Hummel suggested I make a bed for your cat. I hope it's…okay."

"Santana, oh my God, this is a billion times more than okay. You got me the perfect fat kitten and I don't think I could love you any more than I do right now."

"I was just thinking about how you said your parents never let you have a pet because they didn't want the responsibility and how I can't give you a traditional family, but I can give you this."

"I've wanted a cat since the first time I could even say the word. He's perfect. He's…a he, right?"

"He's a he."

"Does he have a name?"

"They were calling him Aragon at the shelter, but I figured you could name him whatever you wanted."

"You don't want to help name him?"

"He's your gift, whatever you decide, I'll love."

"Then I'm going to call him Lord Tubbington. Look how chubby he is, he's like a huge ball of fluff."

"Lord Tubbington." Santana laughs. "That sounds so perfect."

"I got you a gift too, but I seriously can't top this."

"Brittany, you know I wouldn't care if you got me nothing. Seeing you so happy is my Christmas gift."

"Well I made you this." Brittany thrusts the wrapped scrapbook toward Santana, still cradling Lord Tubbington. "I didn't even get help."

Santana carefully unwraps the gift and Brittany watches as her eyes go soft, seeing the first picture of them, one she'd put the camera on the mantle to take. Carefully, Santana flips through the pages and Brittany can see a range of emotions pass over her features. Before she knows it, Santana is crying and leaving Lord Tubbington in her lap, she reaches over to grab one of her hands.

"This all just makes it feel so real." Santana murmurs through tears. "I never even thought about the pictures…"

"I hope is okay…"

"I'm not ashamed of you, Britt. Of course it's okay. I thought your anniversary gift was the best thing anyone has ever given to me…but this…"

"I know we don't have framed pictures of us in the house or anything, but I just…"

"I never thought to frame the pictures. I don't even have them. If you want to get doubles of these…"

"This is just for you, we'll take more pictures if you want to frame them, but I want you to have this."

"Babe. This means more than I even know how to say."

"I love you, Santana, like, so much, and I just want you to always know that what we have is real."

"I do know it, but thank you for reminding me."

Because Santana is tired from her long day at work, they don't stay up much longer. They bring the litter box and the food that Santana had stashed in her office down to the first floor and then they end up taking a bath, with Lord Tubbington peering into the tub, and they take the kitten to bed with them. He curls up right on Brittany's pillow as she holds Santana from behind and she feels like nothing could be more perfect. Santana gave her this little guy and Brittany just feels like he completes their family. Maybe they don't have something traditional, like Santana has said, but Brittany thinks this is better, two women who love each other and a fat little cat.

The next morning, Brittany wakes up with an excitement that it's Christmas Day. Even though they'd done gifts last night, she loves that they have a whole day to spend together, just lounging around in their pajamas until they get dressed to have dinner and then Mercedes comes by for dessert. Even though Santana is still sleeping, Brittany gets out of bed and puts the coffee on and feeds Lord Tubbington. She looks at the instructions on the pancake box, furrows her brow and sets to work making her amazing girlfriend a Christmas breakfast. She just has the first pancakes in the pan when Santana comes out and wraps her arms around Brittany's waist.

"Merry Christmas." She husks, kissing behind Brittany's ear.

"Merry Christmas to you too." Brittany turns around and grins. "I'm making breakfast."

"I see that. What can I do to help?"

"You can sit down and drink your coffee. I've got this under control."

"I'm impressed."

"We'll see how they turn out, you might not be."

"You made me breakfast." Santana smiles. "Even if you burn it, I'll still be impressed."

"Let me pay attention so that doesn't happen."

Brittany only burns one pancake. The rest of her efforts are a success and she brings the big stack over to the table so she and Santana can eat together. It's still too early to call Arizona so she feels like she has all the time in the world to sit with Santana both at the breakfast table and on the living room floor where they eventually settle to play with Lord Tubbington under the Christmas tree. She thinks that it's probably the most perfect Christmas morning she's ever had and she's really hoping that Santana is truly okay with not spending it with her family.

Eventually, they have to get up and get dressed in order to heat up dinner and then get ready to have Mercedes over afterward. They go into the bedroom and Brittany sits on the bed, watching as Santana takes off her pajama top. She's wholly impressed that her girlfriend actually stayed in pajamas this long, since she's usually quick to get dressed in the morning. Santana stands in front of the mirror exposed as she gets ready to get in the shower and Brittany gets off the bed and comes up behind her, snaking her arms around her waist and eventually bringing her hands up to cup Santana's breasts.

"Think we have a little more time?" Brittany breathes into her ear, making Santana shiver.

"I…yeah."

"Come to bed with me."

Santana complies immediately, letting Brittany lay her back on the bed. Brittany presses her knee between Santana's clothed legs and she tilts her head down to take a nipple into her mouth. Santana's hands weave through her long blonde locks and Brittany spends a long time on Santana's breasts, knowing that it gets her really turned on. She wants to have her writhing, she wants to be able to push her legs apart and crawl down her body to find her at her wettest when she gets there. Brittany thinks that if she had to choose one activity to do for the rest of her life, it would be going down on Santana, because bringing her to ecstasy makes Brittany happier than anything else.

"My nipples are so sensitive." Santana murmurs, though she doesn't push Brittany away.

"Think I can make you come just from doing this tonight?"

"It's so embarrassing when that happens."

"I think it's sexy as hell."

Brittany looks up at Santana's face, flushed from both her ministrations and the knowledge that she absolutely _will_ come from Brittany playing with her nipples. With a satisfied grunt, Brittany continues what she's doing, only occasionally tensing her thigh between Santana's legs to give her a little something extra. Santana's first orgasm is small, a squeak and the tightening of her fingers in Brittany's hair, but Brittany knows that she can do better than that and kisses down her body, pressing Santana's knees flat on the bed.

Just as she'd wanted, Santana is so wet and Brittany laps it up, not even kissing her thighs, just wanting to get to the destination. Santana's hands are still woven tightly through Brittany's hair and she moans as Brittany's tongue proves her entrance. It doesn't take long before Santana comes again, this time, her legs shaking and profanities escaping her lips. Brittany keeps going though, until Santana finally pushes her away, breathing heavily as she lays sprawled out on the bed. She moves to touch Brittany, but Brittany stills her hand, having gotten enough just out of pleasuring Santana and knowing that her wonderful girlfriend needs time to recover after such an intense series of orgasms. Because it's a little cold in the bedroom, even with the heat on, Brittany moves to cover Santana with the blanket on the end of the bed and she curls up beside her.

"I have no strength to get in the shower." Santana laughs, cradling Brittany's face.

"We have time."

"I'm really happy right now."

"Are you?"

"Yeah. Being with you makes me happier than anything else. I wish we could run away to Greece or Hawaii or something and just be in bed together all the time."

"You'd get bored. You love to work."

"Not as much as I love you."

Santana gets quiet and contemplative and Brittany just leaves her be, stroking her hair, the scar on her abdomen, her face, just being with her. Finally, they both know that it's time to get out of bed and they get in the shower together. Santana's hair doesn't need to be washed, but she washes Brittany's and Brittany relaxes under her intimate touch. Once they're done and dressed—and Santana looks so sexy in jeans and a sweater, Brittany thinks—they go into the kitchen and heat up the ham and side dishes that they'd ordered.

"You don't mind that Mercedes is coming over, do you?" Santana asks as Brittany sneaks Lord Tubbington a tiny piece of ham under the table.

"It's your Christmas tradition with her."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No." Brittany shakes her head. "I don't mind. I wasn't sure we'd ever stop being so wary of each other, but now I think we're in a good place. We both love you and would kill someone if they hurt you."

"She means a lot to me."

"I know. You don't open up to many people and you're open with her. I'm glad that I think we're becoming friends."

"I am too." Santana nods and leans across the table to kiss Brittany. "Now stop feeding the cat all of your dinner and enjoy it."

They finish up their dinner and then clean the kitchen together. Santana starts a fire in the fireplace while Brittany takes the Yule log cake they ordered out of the refrigerator for when Mercedes gets there. She also fills up both of their wine glasses while she's in the kitchen, then goes into the living room where Santana has her legs pulled up beneath her on the couch. She curls up at Santana's side and Lord Tubbington hops up onto her lap. She just can't help but cuddle the kitten, still finding it hard to believe that Santana not only got this little guy for her, but also made him his own bed. Her heart is just swollen with love and she looks down at Santana's face.

"What?"

"I just think this is my best Christmas." Brittany beams.

"Even away from your family?"

"Santana, you _are_ my family. And I know we're going to go out and party with my friends for New Year's Eve, but right now, this is the only place I want to be."

"I'm glad, I was worried it would be a disappointment."

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know, it's just not much. Christmas is supposed to be big and exciting or whatever but we're just…home."

"Do you really think I'd have a better time eating one of my parents' friends quinoa loaf instead of being with you? Just because there's not a lot of people around doesn't mean it's not special. I like Christmas like this, I want to spend every year like this. Are you…crying?"

"It's just that I'm really happy. I'm thinking about how lonely I was all of those years with my parents and how everyone kept asking when I was going to find a husband and I knew I could never live up to what they expected of me. With you, I don't feel like there are any expectations."

"I wish I could have been in your life all the years you felt like that. It must have been really hard."

"I just felt like a freak, you know? I was little when I realized I looked a little too long at my female teachers and I didn't have crushes on the boys like the other girls did. It was lonely and being around my family made me feel even lonelier because they kept telling me how I should feel. I remember my grandmother used to talk about my wedding and ask what guy I was going to marry. I would just pick the name of whatever boy in my class that the other girls had a crush on and pretend I did too. It got harder when I was in college…sorry, I'm talking too much."

"Keep talking, I want to hear."

"My mom just always was calling Barnard 'that dyke school' and my aunts picked it up too. They would laugh about it right in front of me and ask me why I didn't have a boyfriend yet. I would always make up the name of some guy I was seeing from NYU or Columbia or Fordham to keep them from suspecting anything. I would leave every holiday feeling exhausted and cry myself to sleep. All I wanted was to be normal, now all I want is you."

"You have me, you know. You're always going to have me. Look. We have a family now. Lord Tubbington, go cuddle with Mama."

"Mama?"

"Yeah, tough luck, I already called dibs on Mommy."

"I—" The doorbell interrupts Santana before she can say anything else and since Lord Tubbington has nestled himself into her lap, Brittany gets up to get it, opening the door to Mercedes and snow.

"Girl, it's freezing out here." She laughs, bustling past Brittany and into the warm house. "Merry Christmas! Santana, do you have a cat on your lap?"

"Meet Lord Tubbington." Santana waves his little paw and Brittany thinks she fits right in as his mama.

"Sweet Jesus, I never thought I'd see the day."

"She got me him for Christmas." Brittany chirps. "Isn't he like, totally the cutest?"

"I've gotta admit, he is pretty cute."

"I'll go get the cake and the wine." Brittany offers. "This is a great end to a great Christmas."


End file.
